


Polish

by itsL (snarkstark)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst to Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Avengers, Family, Get Ur Shit Together Both Of You, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony, M/M, Pining, Rhodey is Good Bro, Slow Burn, The Avengers being a Good Team, The Life of Tony Stark, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric, Unrequited (requited) Love, Very very angsty to very very fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkstark/pseuds/itsL
Summary: But he could understand enough, in that moment, to realise a fundamental truth.No matter how many circuit boards he made, no matter how much he polished:His Father never did, and never will, want him.Tony Stark has spent his entire life polishing, trying to become something better than he is. Those that love him can only follow him on his journey to greatness, and more aptly, his journey towards happiness (beginning with a supersoldier and a mismatched team).





	Polish

**Author's Note:**

> is this a?? finished fic?????  
> a story that follows Tony Stark on his journey to greatness, and more aptly, his journey towards happiness  
> just leT HIM BE HAPPY

Tony Stark was four years of age when he built his first circuit board. The crude craftmanship was mimicked from what he’d seen his Father perform a hundred times, those deft hands compiling the circuitry like a Doctor performing a routine operation. Perhaps every single one produced was perfect, to the last piece of wiring. But as the gentle tapping of bare feet flying at great pace echoed throughout Stark Mansion’s halls, it was an object of pure love that was clutched between Tony Stark’s tiny fingers. 

Sliding around the corner, the small boy came to a pause. His lungs, although extremely capable of giving a good, long cry when he so desired, and somehow even more capable of providing the oxygen he needed to talk a mile a minute, seemed to experience error. 

The door that served as an entryway to his Father’s workshop was daunting. The slab of cold steel itself was not so bad – in fact, there had been many hours where the young Stark had slumped on the floor, back pressed against the freezing metal until it was warmed to his body temperature. Jarvis repeatedly tried to interest him in other activities, but he found the offer somewhat insulting. Through the wide, burning eyes of the child, he could see nothing that proffered a better time than listening to the sounds of creation behind that division; there was nothing grander that the world could offer him than the ability to clutch the plane, the car, the toy, the pulley-system, he had constructed in his hands, and wonder if _this_ time, Howard just might smile when he saw it. 

It had to be this time. 

His fingertips traced the edges of the circuit board, as he heaved the biggest breath that he was able to manage, summoning all the courage he required. His hand curled into a fist, as he slowly raised it and knocked on the door that stared him down with such disapproval. Examining the child’s disposition, it would be impossible to tell whether the fierce domination of the intimidating door against the bare landscape of the hallway was what made him tremble so, or whether it was what lay inside. 

He knocked a total of three times, before he stumbled back. Tony rocked anxiously on his heels, his knuckles white.

After all, it was never certain which Dad he would be greeted with. 

With an unnecessary force, the door swung open, and the genius felt as if he would collapse in defeat. Wrong Dad, wrong Dad, wrong –

“What do you want?” Howard’s voice was low and dangerous, a snarl masked as civility, “Haven’t I told you enough times that I’m busy with work, Anthony? Is it truly imperative that I repeat myself time and time again? I didn’t think to assume that a son of mine would find it so difficult to understand a simple set of instructions. You listen to me, boy.” At that, his Dad crouched in the way adults often did, as though Tony may be able to hear them better when they gained that extra metre of proximity. However, he tactfully chose to keep this observation to himself. Perhaps, his lips were just shaking a touch too much to ever get the words out. 

“You can either listen, and listen well, or I can teach you these lessons in a way that you won’t like so much, hm? Which would you rather, Anthony?” The sickening smell on his Father’s breath confirmed what he had already known; Howard had clearly been drinking from his special cabinet that Tony was never _ever_ to touch. 

The child was disregarded any time to formulate an answer, as the man’s vaguely hazy eyes dropped to the small circuit in his hands. Without hesitation, he pulled it roughly away from its creator and examined it with a cold gaze. As he turned it over between his hands, Tony became suddenly and awfully aware of how small and meaningless it looked when compared to the things his Father made. A scarlet flush adorned his cheeks, his eyes beginning to sting as he mourned ever knocking. “Well, it seems functional, you’ve managed that much. But this here is all messy, and this certainly is an awful way to wire it. Perhaps you should take another look at the blueprints you clearly copied. I expect to see vast improvement, Anthony. Or perhaps I should begin to expect just functional from you. Keep trying. And don’t you dare stop improving until you’re perfect, understood?” The movement of Tony’s head was almost violent as he nodded, recognising that functional was a compliment. 

He just didn’t understand why his vision was so blurry if his Dad had complimented him. 

The circuit board was unceremoniously pressed back into his hands, and before he could even raise his hanging head, the door was closed in his face. Functional. He was functional. His hands trembled as the first of his tears slid down his face, landing on his _functional_ circuit. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he wiped away his own tears with a ferocity that startled even himself. It was necessary, however. Starks didn’t cry. Stark men were made of iron.  
Turning on his heel, the child stormed back down the hallway, the echo of his steps no longer frantic and loud, but slow and quiet. Now was no time for tears, after all. Reflection and improvement were the necessary steps to take, considering his feedback, although the small boy could only register this as a need to better himself beyond what many would say was possible. But Tony Stark was born to make the impossible possible. After all, that was what geniuses did.  
Upon returning to his own room, he examined the mess he had made with an eye turned critical, deciding which instruments and tools had been the correct choice, and highlighting the ways in which a more exact construction could be taken underway. His endeavour proved to be almost useless, as his attention and focus was repeatedly stolen by the current circuit in his hands. Whenever his gaze dropped towards it, the bitter taste in his mouth became worse and worse. If only he had made it neater. If only he had thought about all these things _before_ showing his Father. If only he had considered the wiring. 

If only he’d been better. 

With a bout of anger, he began to pick at the circuit, tugging at parts in frustration. Promptly marching over to the bin under his desk, he hovered there, eyebrows tightly furrowed. He should throw it away. He should. But he didn’t want to. The fierce ache of his heart told him the facts – like all his inventions, the circuit board was, well, his. 

A harsh voice in his head reminded him of his Father’s words. Did he want to be just functional?  
“Master Tony! Where are you, my boy?” 

The sound of approaching footsteps startled him into action, his eyes flying wide. They increased in volume as they approached, and he shifted the creation from hand to hand, panicked. He heard the creak of the door and – 

“Hello, Jarvis.” He greeted quietly, hoping that his eyes didn’t appear too red. There was no escape from the omniscient butler, however, and he was promptly swept up into a hug. 

“I take it that the audience with your Father did not proceed as hoped?”

“Not really.” Tony admitted, his legs swinging as Jarvis turned to carry him into the kitchen. Vague thoughts of protest crossed his mind (after all, he was more than big enough to walk himself, thank you very much), but Jarvis smelled like warm bread and he supposed he would allow it just this once. The bedroom door clicked behind them as they left, leaving the room quiet and abandoned.

The circuit board lay nestled at the bottom of Tony Stark’s trash can.

As it would to most four-year olds, the world looked a great deal brighter when he was perched on the kitchen counter – something that was usually very strictly forbidden under Jarvis’ reign – with a warm scone that was being demolished at a fast rate. Although a full stomach and a slightly sleepy feeling made the child feel less hopeless, he was still totally and irreversibly preoccupied with his current situation. Jarvis’ gentle humming soothed his frayed nerves as he held his head in one hand, lost in his own realm of thought. 

Conversationally, Jarvis asked him a question. “Do you know why I love to do the dishes, Tony?” 

Predictably, Tony could only react with confusion and incredulity, “No, why would you like to do chores?” This, coming from the boy who spent hours sitting on the floor, was arguably ironic, but the child had his point. There were easily a hundred things he could think of that were more excitable than dirty dishes, after all. 

“Don’t look like that, Master Tony,” Jarvis’ eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, “I enjoy doing the dishes because it clears my mind. Whenever there’s a problem that needs overcoming, it helps. You see, my dear, your mind will never be able to solve an issue, when it cannot identify the issue. Do you see?”

“You mean if my brain was too busy?”

“Exactly. Doing something repetitive, or boring as I’m sure you would call it, makes you relaxed. Even more so, I assume, for someone with your intellectual capacity, considering how easy it is for you. Sometimes, all your mind needs is a little bit of help from your hands, and it can do a world of wonders, Tony.” 

Perhaps it was only years later that Tony would understand the true extent of Jarvis’ child-rearing ability, for in the moment, his response was less than desired. 

“So, I should… do the dishes?”

Jarvis merely smiled and wiped his hands on a dishcloth, reaching into the cupboard under the sink. “If you would like to give my suggestion a try, Master Tony, I suggest you start with the polishing.” The young boy was presented with a slightly offensively neon rag and a can of polish. “Here, that should get rid of any dust around the Mansion.”

“You really think this will help?” Tony’s voice was sceptical as he reluctantly took the supplies into his hands. His trust in Jarvis persuaded him to take the objects, but the situation at hand left him to suspect whether this was simply a con to trick him into helping around the household. 

“I do, indeed.”

Following this, Tony saw no choice in the matter. Rag in hand, he traipsed the corridors, eyes scanning for any dusty objects that he could seize and scrub clean. His first conquest came in the form of a candelabra, housing three droopy candles. The child gathered himself some polish, and began to clean. The reaction, he was disappointed to find, was not immediate. After the candelabra came a picture frame, then one of his Mother’s pianos, then a table leg. Before he had truly realised, Jarvis’ statements had come true. The more he repeated them, the more he found himself slipping into the repetitive motion with ease. His mind was left to wander without pressure or limits, as all he was doing was chores, not a project. 

Before long, his transit from room to room was eager and fast, as he searched the house for ornaments with layers of dust. A feeling of accomplishment swelled in his chest, as the improvements came to him as gentle as waves on a calm tide. They pushed themselves into his thoughts with enough geniality that he almost didn’t notice, at first. But now he knew which tools he needed, and he knew how to make each circuit neat and perfect. He only needed to know how to get the wiring just the way his Father wanted it. 

His eyes flickered to the rag in his hand, and he finally noticed how much dust coated it. It was surely unusable to continue with, so he decided that his dusting adventure would be shortly delayed by a change in rag. By the time he reached the kitchen, there was no humming, signalling that Jarvis had moved to a different location – no doubt taking care of chores of his own. The small boy made his way over to the cleaning cupboard, hauling it open and peering inside. There was no shortage of rags to choose from, ranging in shades and texture. He felt each one in his hand, feeling with a certainty that this was a decision of great enormity, and must not be taken lightly. He had almost settled on a soft blue one, when something caught his eye. Hiding at the very back of the cupboard, was a startling red dust rag that looked soft enough to sleep on. That had to be the one, but retrieving it was the only problem. 

Luckily, he was small enough to climb into the storage space itself, pushing various bottles and tools out of his way in his search. The door swung behind him, leaving him with just a sliver of light to work with. With a victorious smile, his hand closed around the rag, and he clutched it to his chest. But as he began the process of turning around, he registered the sound of loud voices coming his way. Panicked, he chose to remain in his position. He was sure that no adults would appreciate him crawling around in the kitchen, especially with all the cleaning things he had knocked out of order and crushed. 

“Howard, there’s no use in searching the kitchen, there’s no alcohol here, for God’s sake.”

“Be quiet, Maria.” 

“Howard, I’m sick and tired of being quiet. I refuse to let you hide away in that lab day after day, drinking more by the minute. What happened to the man I married?” 

Tony quivered at his parents’ tones. Howard was angry and could scarcely control it, while his Mother was desperate and pleading. It made his eyes sting for the second time that day. 

“I’m right here, darling.” The voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Howard, stop. You’re not at a gala, right now, don’t you see? I’m your wife, not some business partner!”

“Then why don’t you start acting like it?”

“You want to talk about that, Howard? I’ll start behaving like a wife when you start behaving like a Father!”

The argument began to get heated, and Tony pushed a hand tightly against his mouth to muffle his own quiet sobs. 

“Oh, please. You know how busy I am. We agreed the day we decided to have a child that you would take care of the namby-pamby nonsense and I would take care of keeping a roof over our head.”

“Howard, that agreement is completely void!” His Mother came undone with every word, “Because I was the only one who wanted a son!” 

There was an awful pause, and Tony no longer knew whether the hand over his mouth was to keep him quiet or to keep him from being sick. 

“I was the only one who wanted a son,” She repeated in broken defeat, “You only wanted an heir.” 

Tony didn’t understand why his Mother and Father shouted all the time, or why they were so hostile to one another. He couldn’t grasp the concept of a married couple that had fallen out of love. He couldn’t know the things that went on while Jarvis took him to the museum, or ushered him into closed off rooms. But he could understand enough, in that moment, to realise a fundamental truth. 

No matter how many circuit boards he made, _no matter how much he polished:_

His Father never did, and never will, want him. 

 

 

 

* * *

Tony’s fingers flew over his keyboard, launching themselves over the space as if they had a mind of their own, acting out of sheer desperation as his muscles tried to keep up with the absurd speed of his thoughts. Every line of code that his mind spat out was poetry to his eyes; for Tony Stark, this was his great, unfinished symphony. This was his legacy, laid out in letters and numbers. The absurdity that this masterpiece was contained within a hard-drive no bigger than his fist was somewhat astounding, and more than a little alarming. 

At sixteen-years of age, maybe Tony should have been kicking his legs in a quiet high school classroom, counting down the seconds to Winter Break, but instead, he hunched over the tiny desk crammed into his dorm. Well, technically it belonged to both Rhodey and himself, but the genius had somehow managed to dominate the desk so completely and utterly that his friend had given up hope of doing work there. 

Greater than this, however, instead of a graded paper sat in his hands, the beginnings of the code for the world’s most advanced A.I was curled in his palm.  
His butler had laughed when Tony had called to deliver the news. “I think you’ll like my next project, Jarvis. Meet Just A Rather Very Intelligent System. Or, J.A.R.V.I.S for short.” If the genius hadn’t been mistaken (and he very rarely was), there might have been a few tears caught in that laugh. After all, the boy was certainly a long way from wooden planes and circuit boards. 

His toes curled into the frayed carpet under his feet, his body weight being transferred closer to the edge of his seat. As he neared the end of the line of code, his breath stuttered with nervous anticipation, preferring to stall in his chest. Slamming the last key with more force than necessary, he collapsed backwards with sudden relief. J.A.R.V.I.S was still in his most basic stages, the principles of any A.I were not bypassed simply because the nature of the Artificial Intelligence was beyond anything that currently existed. 

The student flicked to another screen, analysing his notes for the next stage of code. Burning eyes followed the notations that he had left for himself, his fingers occasionally darting out to make amendments. For all the world would know, Tony Stark was in a world unto himself. It was as if nothing existed aside from the task at hand, as if the invisible thread that connected him and his work was bound so tightly around his wrists that he could never leave.  
Although, as Rhodey had discovered on frequent occasions, this was an illusion. 

A strong grip to his shoulder and a firm shake was all that it would take to shatter the box Tony had confined himself to, the snapping back of the boy’s senses visible in the way his eyes widened from their intensely narrowed focus. It took a moment for the genius to intake the additional information, slightly peeved by the sudden and unwanted reminder that the rest of the world was also a current thing. 

“I’m busy, Platypus.” The blunt tone was usually enough to cause a step back in possible friends, but James Rhodes was more than used to the attitude of a determined Stark. 

“Truly tragic. Come on, save that and put your laptop in your bag.”

This statement seemed to be enough to earn the other’s attention, as he spun around in his chair and raised an eyebrow. “What bag?” He demanded, before his expectant gaze answered his own question. The bag, belonging to himself, was laying on his bed packed up as if he was travelling. A flush of shame and irritation broke out on his face, causing him to throw a glare at Rhodey that was more malicious than his previous dismissal. 

“C’mon, man. I already told you that I’m not going home for break.” The muttered words were in direct dissonance with the sounds chorusing from the hallway. Wishes of a Merry Christmas and a safe period of travel carried throughout the dormitory block as almost all the students were in the process of packing or leaving, to visit their homes and families for Christmas. Tony had been doing a perfectly respectable job of ignoring it, too, before his best friend had to go and ruin it, of course. 

After all, it had been made perfectly clear that he wasn’t welcome home for the break, this year. His studying was far more imperative, according to his Father. His lips twisted into a bitter expression as he reminisced on the grating phone conversation. 

Perhaps he should just be grateful that his Father even had time to talk to him. 

Rhodes interrupted his brooding (no, that was not a fancy word for ‘sulking’, shut up, Rhodey), with a startling efficiency, merely rolling his eyes and continuing. “Well, change of plans. You’re staying with me, of course, you idiot.” Before Tony could even muster his obvious protest, the situation was snatched from his control. Rhodey leaned over his head and saved for him, powering down his laptop and throwing it on top of the clothes. 

Gasping with horror at the pure _audacity_ of his so-called friend, Tony opened his mouth once more to voice his displeasure, and was once more denied. 

“And before you start whining, which I know you’re about to do,” His roommate paused to adopt a high, irritating tone in mockery, “But, Platypus, you didn’t even _tell_ me, wah, wah, wah!”

“First of all, I don’t even sound like tha-“

“Shut up. I didn’t tell you because I knew that you’d react like a baby, which you _are,_ by the way. And then you’d make a huge fuss and end up staying here and skulking around M.I.T like a sad, tiny ghost and – “

“Excuse me, tiny is a new low.”

“I thought I told you to shut up? The point is,” Rhodey shouldered both his own bag and Tony’s, since the genius was clearly not getting with the programme, and started to stride towards the door, “We’re going home, Tony!”

Dumbfounded, a word which it seemed almost laughable to apply to Tony Stark, the genius trailed after him. Spluttering and rambling, the young genius followed Rhodey like an upset puppy, yapping insistently at his heels. The other seemed to be utterly immune to his arguments, and chose to ignore him in favour of checking his phone. Obviously receiving confirmation of his family’s arrival, James then proceeded to drag an extremely reluctant Tony out into the parking lot. 

Outside, where the Winter air nipped at him, raising Goosebumps on his arms and teasing blood to the surface of his cheeks, Tony observed his best friend of one year. He watched the warmth in his eyes grow in magnitude, seemingly combatting the cold atmosphere. It was that look, _that_ look that tore him apart from the inside, that caused him to feel as though all his stupid, unnecessary feelings were clawing at his lungs and refusing to let air out. It was that look that fractured his hearts into pointed fragments, poised to injure anyone who attempted to pick them up. 

That look of love – of being loved. 

Despite the offer that Rhodey presented, and the clear fact that James Rhodes most certainly cared for him, there was no changing it. Nobody looked at Tony like that. Nobody wanted to.

The silver car crunched on the gravel as it pulled up beside them, the large doors sliding open before it had even come to a stop. His friend was efficiently tackled to the ground by three blurs, squealing loud enough to ring out across the entire lot. Tony took a shuffled step backwards, noting a fourth sister showing more restraint. She looked older than Rhodey, so that most likely explained the lack of enthusiasm. Once the car had braked, the front doors swung open and Rhodey’s parents stepped out. 

“Sunshine!” Rhodey’s Father’s voice was so soft, so gentle that it took him by surprise. The somewhat compulsory man-hug took place, before his Mother swooped in to give him a borderline medical examination, commenting on everything from weight to fashion sense in under a minute. To his horror, this attention was then turned to him without any hesitation. Mrs Rhodes cornered him, lifting his arms and frowning. “Tony, dearest, you look much thinner than you did in the last picture Rhodey sent of the two of you. The both of you need good, home-cooked meals. You can’t fool me, Mr Stark, I know the two of you most likely live on beer and noodles.” That was startling accurate to the point where Tony threw Rhodey a, ‘snitches get stitches’ glare. The genius was taken aback at the fuss being made of him, as Mama Rhodes checked of the list of things that he needed. 

The List Of Things Tony Stark Needed was stated as follows:  
1\. A home cooked meal.  
2\. Fresh laundry.  
3\. A good night’s sleep.  
4\. A break from the city air.  
5\. Another hug. 

Number five was sorted immediately, before he was thrown into the thick of things with Rhodey’s siblings. They clustered around him, leaving him uncharacteristically bashful as they cooed and cared for him, praising his looks and the things Rhodey had been telling them. Thankfully, his misery was quickly put to an end by Rhodey himself, who physically shooed his sisters away. “Okay, okay, back off, back off. First of all, quit telling him he’s handsome, his head is big enough already.”

“Demonstrating our profound bond already, Rhodey?” Tony dropped the comment with a smile.

“Secondly, let the boy breathe a little. He didn’t actually know he was coming until this morning.”

The family answered with quizzical looks. “James, we invited Tony to stay months ago.” Mrs Rhodes reminded him, looking offended that her son hadn’t communicated the offer. As for Tony, he was just trying not to look too startled by the whole situation. 

“I know.” Rhodey shrugged, helping his Father to load their bags into the trunk of the car, “He just has some sort of medical condition where he can’t accept hospitality unless its forcefully shoved down his throat.”

“In my defence, that’s not a real medical condition.” The brunet’s hands flew into the air, raised in a sign of surrender. Although he expected to receive some sort of negative feedback to this embarrassing claim (thanks to Rhodey), he was surprised to be regarded with only what could be described as fondness. 

“You pick good, Rhodey.” The restrained sister, who had introduced herself as Quinn, commented ominously, before hustling the genius into the minivan. “You pick good.” She repeated, obviously satisfied as he observed him. He liked to have thought that there weren’t many things that intimidated him, but he had to admit that Quinn made the list. 

And that was it. As far as kidnappings went, this one was certainly one certainly couldn’t be faulted. 

The next two weeks were a blur. It was this odd sensation of being surrounded by warmth always, from sitting on Rhodey’s shoulders to place the star on the Christmas tree, to playing cards with Grandma Rhodes and getting his ass royally kicked, Tony felt himself falling further and further in love with the familial essence that adorned every corner and crevice of the Rhodes family household. He adopted traditions that he never knew existed, dodged Rhodey’s younger sisters under the mistletoe for fear of getting a hard punch from his best friend. 

The lone moment of panic and fear was when he pounced on Rhodey in the early hours of the morning with wide and feared eyes. “Dude, I don’t have presents.” He hissed violently, shaking him without an ounce of respect for his half-asleep companion. 

“Tony, they don’t care.” Rhodey mumbled sleepily, his tone peeved as he attempted to roll over and go back to sleep. 

“I care!” He growled back, feeling terrible that he’d welcomed their hospitality with nothing to offer in return. The sick feeling churned in his stomach for the rest of the night, causing him to lose sleep over the matter. The small town in which they were located was unlikely to have the kind of stores that Tony needed, but he resolved to head there the following day to see if he could find anything at all. 

Holding himself to his own promise, the genius was awake at eight o’clock, while the sun was just becoming comfortable in the sky overhead. He dressed quietly, not wanting to disrupt his sleeping hosts. He scribbled a post-it note proclaiming his intentions and stuck it to Rhodey’s forehead, stifling his own snickers of amusement. 

Lacing his boots, he reflected on the week and four days that had slipped behind him before he could even blink. Tony looped the lace over his fingers, wondering quietly to himself if all love was this way. Was it always liked cupped water? He pressed his fingers together tightly as the days passed, hoping the time may remain, but it seeped through the cracks despite his effort. Nothing good was sustainable, he decided. Love wasn’t permanent, not for him.  
And that was okay. 

The door closed quietly behind him, making a soft click. The country lanes were rough and deserted as he made his way into what could loosely be labelled a ‘town centre’, hands in pockets and earphones secured. Finally reaching his destination, his disappointment was palpable. The bare essentials, such as a grocery store, a few places for assorted clothing, and what looked like a diner were the first few places that caught his eye. Not exactly rich in gifts.  
Shoulders slumped, he felt frustration rise in him, until he saw it. 

A hardware and DIY store. It made perfect sense, of course, with all the rural settlements and farms scattered around the area, most of the building and such came from the locals themselves. Tony Stark’s lips twitched in a half smile as he changed courses, heading towards the place.  
If he couldn’t find the gifts, he was most certainly going to build them. 

Although it was true that there was little competition, it remained that Christmas Day with the Rhodes’ household was the best Christmas of Tony’s life. His ‘bots raced around the feet of Rhodey’s siblings, as he relished traditions that had been so far out of his reach. They watched the films that played every year, sat around the dining room table for lunch, and exchanged gifts that, while not particularly expensive or in vast number, were all heartfelt and perfectly tailored to one another’s interests. 

Most were opened under the tree, in full view of one another’s delighted reactions. His exchange with Rhodey was more private, locked away in their shared room, piled haphazardly on Rhodey’s bed. “First of all, you look ridiculous in that hat.”

“Fuck you,” Tony adjusted the admittedly horrendous Santa hat on his head and crossed his arms, “I look perfect.”

“You can’t swear on Christmas, it’s unholy.” Rhodey mocked in return, shoving a gift unceremoniously in his lap, to which Tony returned the favour. Opening the slim package carefully, there was a slim black band inside, inconspicuous and sleek. Upon closer inspection, it also brandished an engraving on the inside, which read, ‘Forever and always, my favourite asshole.’

“You got me a friendship bracelet,” Tony smirked, holding back his laughter. Rhodey glared at him spluttering and giving a veritable powerpoint presentation on the criteria of a friendship bracelet while Tony slipped it on, feeling the weight comfortable and heavy. “Platypus,” Tony eventually interrupted, “I love it, and I’ll wear it to the grave.”

“Not too far off, knowing you.” His friend grumbled back.

“You ruined our fucking moment!”

The small pile of gifts that he had accumulated by the end of the day -- books in his field of interest, a tiny screwdriver kit, food, and such, lay at the end of his bed when he fell asleep that night, ready to be packed the next morning. More so, the feeling of warmth and joy, the supposed pillars of Christmas that before he had dismissed, enveloped him like a blanket and eased him into sleep. He wished, exhausted but pleasantly so, that he could live inside this feeling, untouchable and with a heart that almost felt intact. 

Packing the next morning was a sorrowful affair, as for the first time, returning to MIT was unappealing to the genius. He thanked his hosts profusely for all they had done for him, but they brushed him off. It left him buzzing with acceptance, making him all the sadder to leave the place. Recounting highlights of the break on the drive back, Tony burned into his memory the best parts. He swore to himself he would never forget the way he and Rhodey’s sisters decorated his friend in Christmas lights and tinsel while he slept, taking numerous pictures for the Christmas card, or the way Mr. Rhodes pressed the tiny pack of screwdrivers he had won in a cracker into his hands, stating that he could make much better use of them with a brain like his. He vowed to tell Jarvis that his recipe for cherry pie had been a hit with Rhodey’s Mother, who seemed impressed by his unexpectedly large knowledge of baked goods. 

Never, he promised, would he forget the feeling of family. 

After a slightly tearful goodbye in the MIT parking lot, they heaved their luggage back up to the room and closed the door, practically collapsing on the shitty couch they owned, by now stained and torn in various places from their misuse of it. After a few moments of content silence, Rhodey was the first to heave himself to his feet and put a pot of coffee on, moving the luggage to the bedroom for them to unpack later. 

Opting, rather than doing anything remotely helpful, instead to cross the room and tend to Dum-E, Tony crossed the room to the corner where the charging station resided. Waking the ‘bot up, he appeared to have missed him if the slightly painful ankle-bumping and excited beeping was anything to go by. “Get off, you idiot, you’re dusty and gross!” Tony batted at the dense little machine, his insults far too soft and fond to be convincing. He was right about the dust, however. Turns out being dragged away from his projects for weeks left them susceptible to that kind of thing. He wiped a finger through the relatively thin layer of grey to assess the damage and shrugged, heading to the kitchen to root around for a dust cloth and polish. 

Leading Dum-E to the middle of the room, he began above his back-left wheel, slowly but surely making his way upwards. After a minute, Rhodey emerged from their room and spotted him, raising an eyebrow at the way he sat cross-legged on the carpet, cleaning away. Yet, with no hesitation, he found his own rag in the kitchen and sat on the opposing side, cleaning in a peaceful sort of symmetry. The sunlight from the window flashed on Tony’s shining, black band, ever so slightly distracting as he carefully removed dust from between the plates. When he next looked up, he saw that his best friend’s eyes were fixed on it.  
Before he could open his mouth to do something appropriate, such as make fun of him for staring, Rhodey beat him to it by talking. 

“Tony, you know I love you, right?” It was so simple, and matter of fact, the way he said it, but not clinical by any means. The simplicity wasn’t, in any way, dismissive, but rather laced with a certainty so intimate that it was close to a question, as if wondering how on Earth Tony _couldn’t_ know such a thing. 

Even though the young genius was in a state of utter shock, and more than a little red, his reply was firm. “I know. I love you, too.”  
Because that implicit question was utterly accurate. How could Tony not know that Rhodey loved him? Who else yanked him away from trouble by his shirt collar, or practically tucked him into bed when he got too carried away on his projects? Who else kidnapped him to spend Christmas with his family because he knew Tony didn’t quite have one, or bought him an honest to God friendship bracelet? 

Perhaps this was the first time it was verbalised, but words certainly weren’t the only way in which they said, ‘I love you.’  
Naturally, the whole scene was a little too sentimental for Tony Stark to bear, so he quickly found a way to ruin the whole thing by adding, “Even though you’re a weirdo that got me a friendship bracelet.”

“Let that go already!” 

 

 

* * *

Tony Stark was a husk. 

His eyes were dark and vacant, their stare too unfocused, too blank, and missing such a fundamental element of being that they were rendered uncomfortable to even glance into. The spark that caused them to shine, that lit his whole being on fire with the status of a boy who had the world behind those eyes, was extinguished. The skin underneath was a shadowy and troubling black, only serving to add more layers of danger and discomfort to those eyes, acting as the dark and unobtrusive canvas to a violent and disturbing picture. 

Below them, his cheekbones jutted out at harsh angles, as serrated and sharp as the twist of his mouth. His skin was sallow, pale to an almost translucent extreme, and looked as breakable as paper. That, as of itself, was the final detail. Tony Stark looked _fragile._ He was a bird who had been released too soon, wings clipped, frame brittle. He could not fly, so therefore he must fall. 

A suit clung to him, and where the outfit once accentuated all the things that drew envy from the hearts of spectators, his money, his power, his genius and his looks, he now drowned in the material like so much noise. This was not a man to be envied. This was a boy. 

This was an orphan. 

Arms locked, an almost imperceptible tremor running through them like that of a live wire, they moved in strong repetitive strokes. His legs were neatly crossed; he resided on the carpeted floor of his bedroom. Resting on the ground near his feet lay a small pot of inky shoe polish, the tin somehow scraped and battered ever so slightly. In his hands, elegant and scarred though they were, remained his shoe, black and appropriate for the event he was attending. The sort his Mother may have picked out for him, perhaps. With a streaked and stained rag, he methodically dipped it into that pot, depositing the residue onto the shoe. He took, and took, scraping the edges, adding more shine. His movements were robotic, unflinching and unhesitant. 

There was a knock at the door, but he continued as though there had been no disturbance. Most likely, he had not even processed it. The door cracked open despite his refusal to engage, slowly swinging forward to reveal the boy’s Godfather standing in the doorway. His suit was finely pressed, his tie neatly knotted, his boutonnière of flowers placed through the pinhole of his jacket, vibrant and pristine. They were supposed to be his Mother’s favourites, the roses that they were wearing. They weren’t. She had liked lilies. Howard had always bought her roses, in a rainbow of genetically engineered shades, and she would smile indulgently at every one, and compliantly pretend that they were not pathetic apologies wrapped in petals and thorns. Tony pushed the lid back onto the polish with unnecessary force, a dent forming in the tin. 

His gaze dragged along the carpet, forcing themselves to look at Obadiah and take in his appearance. Before he could stop himself, he noted, “You didn’t shine your shoes.” Tony didn’t know why he said it. Howard had always worn his shoes shined, never a stain or blemish, on his shoes, on his career, on his work or on his life. Apart from him.

Obadiah looked down, his face working in a small fit of surprise, clearly uncertain on how to respond. “No, I suppose I didn’t.” It was an offhand agreement, neither particularly concerned or affected. In some spontaneous emotional flux, Tony felt the mad urge to insist. For what? What would he say? ‘My Father would have liked them that way.’ Was that it? ‘Show that you care.’ He could have asserted. His Father was in the ground. He wouldn’t see Tony’s shoes. He would never see Tony again. 

“It’s time to go.” Obadiah’s voice was gentle but prompting. The caution and sympathy that was undoubtedly present in his tone was laced with a careful firmness. It wouldn’t look good to be late to his parent’s funeral. 

He wouldn’t want a bad fucking image. 

Slowly, the seconds dragging out between them like some sick echo of his numb and empty thoughts, Tony pulled on his shoes and laced them. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed in a vain attempt to push back the emotions clawing at his chest, as he tried not to recall the day Jarvis taught him how to tie shoelaces by himself. Was this what he was resigned to? A lifetime of fighting against every memory, of running and hiding from trivial objects that were hairline triggers to bouts of nostalgia. How long, would harmless objects cause his vision to blur and his chest to tighten? How long would the pain rip him apart? 

How long before he broke?

They left the house and its haunting silence behind them, chauffeured to the graveyard where the funeral was to be held. Tony’s eyes were trained on the window the entire time, the blurred scenery nothing more than careless shades of grey thrown together by a painter with no heart. His palms were damp, and he felt a sickness he had never quite felt before residing in his stomach, curling there like a serpent, perpetual nausea. He was impossibly caught between two requests. The first was that the journey would stretch on infinitely, that he could stay here, and watch that grey, heaving mass warp and mutate beyond the glass. Tony would not have to regard the faces at the funeral, the sympathetic but entirely useless condolences he would receive, the words that would be spoken by some pastor who knew nothing, who would speak of the work Howard did, and never the rare moments Tony remembered, where his face would soften, just for one moment when he regarded him, and Tony wondered if that was pride and love on his face. He would not speak about how his Mother laughed, when she truly, genuinely laughed, her eyes creased and her laughter raucous, her fingers clenching her pearls. They would not speak of the music his Mother played, while Howard was away on his business, how her hands would take his on a journey, wandering over the keys in a meandering adventure that resounded pure and true through the room, while she sung, in her native tongue, a lullaby. In turn, Tony would not listen. It seemed, in a twisted sort of way, a fair agreement.

On the other hand, he wished time would simply speed up. The sooner this was over with, the better. It was true that he was lost, and unsure of his next move, but he was certain that this was the worst place to be. In the public eye, in the private eye of relatives and associates, he raised his chin and played his part, the perfect son, the future CEO of Stark Industries, strong and sound and every bit as great as his Father before him. They played the loving family, the safety net of understanding and reliance, although that understanding would surely vanish the moment he started to slip up, or crack under the pressure.  
The car rolled to a slow stop, gravel crunching under the tyres. Without a word, Tony opened the door to the car himself, refusing to wait for it to be opened and took a moment, just one moment, to collect himself. Chin up. Confident gait. No tears, but a sorrowful expression. It clicked for him, just then, that this was never a funeral, only a show. A glance at the congregation, in neatly filed rows on either side of the caskets, and he knew that he best perform. 

With that, he made his way towards the funeral, the crowd of black as welcoming as the pits of hell, the void of space. There was nothing he wouldn’t give to make it all go away, to have this to himself. That was his Mother and Father, stuffed into wooden boxes and about to be lowered into the dark, unforgiving ground. The sombre music dragged out, piercing the air and crowding his mind, as he took his place in the first pew. Obadiah remained by his side, a hand clasped on his shoulder. As discreetly as he could manage, Tony shrugged it off. The sun shone on the furnished wooden caskets, as ornate and grand as the people inside, and Tony could have screamed. The rage was sudden and scorching. How dare the sun shine, how dare the sky be bright; how could the world be light when his Mother, his Father and his Jarvis were no longer in it? How dare the world spin on, when it should have crumbled. And yet, it remained, ever indifferent to insignificant matters, to insignificant people. 

The sun still shines. The world spins on. And Tony Stark remains utterly alone. 

Tony tried his best, his hands clenched into fists by his side, to take himself away from here. His eyes were fixed on a position above the heads of the people opposite him, a patch of nothing but blue sky, black and unfulfilled. He let his mind wander, seeking comfort in memories long past: his first science fair, baking bread with Jarvis, shopping for ties with his Mother. It distracted him from the words droning on, the stinging in his eyes, and the coffins dead centre. The world eventually came into focus as he realised there was a shifting in the crowd. It was over. How long it had lasted, he would be unable to recall. It felt like hours and minutes strung together by the universe in some messy paperchain. Of course, there was a veritable queue forming in order to give him a meaningless clasp on the shoulder, a firm handshake, and some well-intended yet misguided words of advice. Time heals all wounds, he was told. But time didn’t bring them back.  
He played his role to perfection, and the relief was almost written across Obadiah’s face when the crowd finally thinned to some of the closest associates, paying their final respects. One by one they drifted away to shiny cars, mourning the loss of their business partners. They would feel a sorrow, perhaps, and miss their presence, the idea of them. But not one of them, apart from him would truly miss them the way he did. 

At last he was alone, with Obadiah standing near the parking area and seeing people away. The gravestones mimicked monuments more than any traditional stone, and Tony supposed he should have been grateful that it wasn’t a statue when considering the size of Howard’s ego. He felt like some pathetic character in a film, where he would begin to talk out loud to them. Tell them he was sorry for the times he had disappointed them, that he wished he had a been a better son, better heir. Or tell them that he buried his heart with them, in the dirt. He would tell them he wished he had said those stupid words. 

“I love you.” It was a numb statement, and when he looked down, he saw the fresh soil had streaked his shining shoes. 

It was then that he was close to crying, but thankfully he was interrupted by Obadiah’s presence, alerted by a small clearing of the throat. Blinking rather rapidly, he spun on his heel. “Home, Tony?” His Godfather offered, the barest hint of a smile on his face, though it seemed forced. This man was far more practised than he was, at the whole game. He could pull a smile from nowhere. 

“No. Not yet. I will call for a chauffeur when I am finished here.” Tony replied, adjusting his tie and attempting to straighten his posture. Obadiah simply nodded his assent, knowing far better than to push, and headed towards the car.

Instead of lingering at his parent’s grave, he began a small journey down the footpath, individual gravestones stretching as far as his eyes could see, like a sea of grief. Each one stood to attention, like a guard protecting the life underneath. The secrets, with people, they buried would never be told now. He reached what he was looking for, and it was there he slumped to the ground, his knees clutched tightly to his chest as he heaved in a ragged breath. 

Every newspaper had already told the story of the tragic death of Howard and Maria Stark. The terrible freak accident that had killed both of its passengers in one fatal swerve off the road. And not one of them had mentioned the driver. 

The grave was simple, but elegant, and Tony would have liked to think Jarvis would have liked the choice. There was no show here, no grand funeral, just him on the grass, mourning for the man who loved him more than anyone on the Earth. He remembered the times he would cry, or the times he would be angry at the entire world for disappointing him, Jarvis would be there. He would patch him up when he fell, he would make things right when they were wrong and he when he was lost with no direction, he would hug him tightly. Sometimes, he would look him in the eyes and look so fond, so hopelessly frustrated, and say to him, “There will come to no happier day than the day you were born, until the day you find within yourself the reason why.” This man, as far as Tony was concerned, hung the stars in the sky. 

Trembling, he broke into wretched sobs, the sound horse and unpleasant in the silence of the graveyard. There was no-one to hear him but the dead. His cries of pain and horror, built in a crescendo of suffering, slowly descending into anger and hatred. He hated the world for taking Jarvis away from him, he hated the population for not mourning him, and he more than anything he hated himself. Reaching into his pocket, he tore out the battered tin of polish, that Jarvis had so lovingly used on his school shoes every week. With a scream of rage, he drew back his arm and hurled the thing as far from himself as he could, collapsing in on himself, an exhausted star that was sure to implode. 

He sat there, until his limbs were dead, and his streaming tears had turned to drops, and dried on his cheeks. The breeze moved his hair into tufts, his eyes were rimmed with red, and grass stains dirtied his slacks, fresh soil stained his shoes. He had never looked more pathetic. Wild, unchartered thoughts moved through his mind like that of an unbothered river current, thoughts of staying here, until he wasted away and became just another gravestone. Thoughts of returning to the mansion, packing his bags and leaving for good. He would change his name, his country, his age. Set up a little repair shop somewhere quiet. Tony couldn’t even decide whether the idea was attractive or repulsive. Eventually, he looked down at his wrist, his Father’s watch a shackle around his wrist, and staggered to his feet. He called for a chauffeur and walked towards the parking area. 

He didn’t look back. 

Upon his arrival, he swung open the heavy doors and traced the pathway of halls he knew so well, a map that was burned into his mind by memory and by muscle. The door was as clinical as it ever was, but standing there, in his Father’s place, taller and older, it didn’t seem quite so malicious. With hands that no longer shook, his fingers curled against the handle and pushed, swinging it open slowly as if it might be rigged. His hands fumbled for the light switch for just a moment, scratching over the unfamiliar wall, before they flickered to luminescence automatically. Of course, he should have expected that. 

Stepping into the workshop felt dangerous, even now. Years of conditioning had him itching for the door. That was what he told himself. It was certainly not the unfinished projects laid across the desktops, the ink almost fresh. It was not the cold cup of coffee, unfinished and abandoned, that stood to attention. It was most certainly not the picture frame on the corner of the desk, the one that showed his Father and him. The remote-control plane that Howard had built for him was clutched in his tiny hands, and he paid no attention to the camera directed towards him. They were trained with laser-focus onto his Father, his attention held rapt by the man he thought to be a hero. 

Behind the shirt and tie, the mouth that did not smile, there was something in Howard’s eyes. A warmth. If Tony had a spark, his Father had possessed a slowburn, a smouldering fire, with glowing embers that breathed. It was dangerous. It was earnest. It was something just a little bit like love. 

Tearing his eyes away from the picture that threatened him, Tony turned away and laid his eyes upon it. The infamous cabinet he was never to touch. Alcohol gleamed like jewels behind the glass wall, sparkling in finely cut bottles. There was a beat where nothing existed but his breath and the beat of his heart, a turning point that promised to rotate his entire being out of orbit. Then he stepped forward and pulled open the cabinet, laying hand to the first bottle that caught his eye. 

Wouldn’t his Father be just fucking proud?

 

 

 

* * *

Stick to the cards. All he had to do was stick to the cards. 

 

Needless to say, Tony did not stick to the cards. His eyes roved over the crowds of reporters, fingers tapping impatiently against cameras and twirling pens in agitation. Did he expect them to believe him? Did he even want them to? Iron Man and Tony Stark were one and the same, there was no separation, no secret identity. This was not a scene of binary, of opposition, or a man and his maker. It was just him. The world could take that and do with it whatever it may desire, but like fundamental laws and equations he had come to know over the course of his career – it was irrefutably a fact. Yes, it was just him. And that would have to be enough. 

“I am Iron Man.” 

The room imploded, senses overlapping one another in a race to overwhelm him first. Camera flashes mimicked strobe lighting, an uproar of voices in upsurge like a wave curling over and crashing into a cliff face. With nothing more to offer than a smile, Tony exited the stage. 

And if, as he walked past Phil Coulson, he shoved the cards right back into his chest with a small bit of excessive force, well, nobody saw him do it.

 

The problem with leaving the noise and the eruption behind him, trusting Pepper and Rhodey, like he did far too often, to clean up his mess, was that now there was nothing but him and his thoughts. Descending the spiral staircase to his workshop, he shifted like a snake losing his skin. The tie knotted pristinely at his neck was tugged loose and discarded on one of the many stairs, his top button being anxiously pulled open. The sunglasses which covered the apparent bruises under his eyes were next to be castoff. The jacket which hugged him like an overzealous business partner was shrugged off his aching shoulders, falling to the ground in a defeated heap. Tony Stark to Tony. He seemed to have so many personalities these days, they were getting harder and harder to separate.  
Perhaps he didn’t want to have to anymore. 

The room was alive, a being that he had breathed life into. It hummed pleasantly, almost vibrating in a way that emoted excitement for the inventor to be back. Projects, contraptions and schematics sprawled over every available surface, haphazard and disorganised to the untrained eye, but Tony moved with a natural awareness that he himself barely recognised, the background of his mind storing every detail, mapping this place, his home, as if was etched into his mind. It glowed, evolving tones of blue and black and steel grey. And yet, Tony had no eye for any of it right now. 

Mumbling uncertainly for JARVIS to implicate a lockdown, he slowly sunk to the ground, his back leaning against a desk, and his knees tucked tightly to his chest, protecting the Reactor. This was what he truly despised, the events of the last few weeks clinging to him like a starving parasite, cruelling attempting to the last tainted molecules of his sanity. 

_“Ah, it’s so beautiful.”_

Tony shook his head violently, desperate to clear it of the voice of his dead Godfather, his dead CEO, his dead enemy. 

_“This… is your ninth symphony.”_

Trembling, he raised his hand to his chest and pressed down hard, reminding himself that he was, in fact, breathing oxygen, and the tightness there was all in his head. It was all in his head. 

_”This is your legacy.”_

Horrified, his other hand cane up to his face and came back wet, his vision blurred. He hadn’t cried, not once. Not when he came home from Afghanistan, not when he lay dying on the floor of his workshop, hole gaping in his chest, not even when he looked down upon the mangled, charred body of the one man who was supposed to protect him above all else. But here, alone, on the dirty ground, he sobbed. 

He sobbed for the loss of his Father figure, some underlying cowardice almost wishing that he could have remained, so, so selfishly, in ignorance. They were right, and he hated to admit it, but that had been blissful. To pretend that Oba- Stane, cared for him, that he loved him, that he was proud of him. To pretend that they were doing a good thing, that they provided support and care for America’s troops. That life had been one that shielded him. It had been torn apart in a week. If he had just _known,_ if he had only _looked._

Now the lives of those people, innocent men and woman, children, families, lay heavy on his battered and bruised heart. He knew that there would be trouble – wasn’t there always? – but he vowed to himself that Iron Man could even begin to redeem the things he had done, he would hold that mantle, until death pulled the suit from his cold, dead hands. 

Wryly, he thought to himself that it wouldn’t be too long until that promise became the truth. 

He caught sight of them then, arranged on the older desk pushed to the side of the room. The material marked it as an outlier – it had been his Father’s before him, and he had never been able to bring himself to throw it away. So, it remained, a fragment of history captured in obnoxious mahogany, as far away as he could place it. There lay almost nothing on its surface, forgotten notices, old forms, and the very few pictures that had survived until the present. One was his engineering competition in the tenth grade. He had won first place, of course, and had finally accepted the fact his Father was never going to come, no matter how many empty promises hung in the air between them. But Jarvis, loving, clever, brilliant Jarvis, had turned up. The picture captured the essence of the day perfectly; Tony clutched his trophy tightly in his hand, while Jarvis stood behind him proudly, smiling indulgently for the camera, the epitome of the polite butler. But if you looked any closer, you saw the gentle hand on Tony’s shoulder, the pride shining in those eyes, the quirk at the edge of his smile. His love was written over his face, clear as day. 

Next to it was the picture of his family, where Tony was only a child, wearing a suit that swallowed his tiny frame. His hair was tamed in some awkward direction, the kinks and curls carefully flattened. He sat precariously on his Mother’s lap, while his Father stood behind them. His presence was as ecliptic as ever, drowning the frame, but it was easy enough to ignore for Tony. To him, the way his Mother’s hand encased his was far more important, the way if he looked carefully, he could see the faintest smudge of red on his cheek where she had kissed him there before the photo had been taken, the lipstick leaving a mark. 

Neither of these photographs captured his attention tonight, however. His elegant, scarred fingers wrapped around the frame of the third photograph. His sleeve moved jaggedly across the surface, swiping away the thin coat of dust that covered it. The particles of dust moved so leisurely through the air in the room, so completely dissonant to the blinding rage that made his heart beat loudly in his chest and made the blood in his veins run hot. As they made an unhurried descent, dancing between one another like a nebula of stars from Earth, Tony hurled the picture with full force towards the wall. It exploded brilliantly, shards of crafted wood and shattered glass flying. It was over too quickly. He stared at the defeated remains, spread over the floor, left with a mess he felt no motivation to clean. The dust settled on the ground. 

Those kinds of things never felt as good as they were supposed to.

“Tony?”

He spun around slowly, reluctance slowing his limbs. Rhodey regarded him for a few moments, the static in the air caused by his fury and his sorrow and his determination beginning to fade to a background feeling. “Are you going to yell at me or not?” Eventually, Tony snapped at him, sick of the silence swallowing him.

Rhodey didn’t grace him with a response, just crossed the room and pulled him into an embrace. There was a moment where things were tense, before something in the genius gave out completely, and he slumped against his friend. Head on his shoulder, he let his weight rest entirely on Rhodey, and for a moment, convinced himself that physical weight was all he had to carry. That someone else could carry that for him every once in a while. He felt Rhodey sigh against him, the kind that felt like a weight in your chest and was so filled with regret and sorrow that you could taste it in your mouth. 

“What?” Tony questioned him, with such a pathetic attempt at a jab in the ribs that Rhodey didn’t even bother to retaliate. He expected the speech then, the talk about how selfish and stupid and reckless he was being by exposing his identity to the world. How he only had one job, and he had somehow managed to fuck that up. Maybe even worse would be some pitiful talk about how this was a _hard_ time for him and that Rhodey understood that, how he would help Tony get the help he needed. 

Rhodey shrugged against him. 

“That poor Coulson guy. He made all of those flashcards for nothing.” 

This was so much more than Tony deserved. The overwhelming wave of self-hatred and selfish gratitude crashed over him, stole the breath from his lungs and swept his feet from under him. The life in Tony was almost visibly dissipated into the surrounding air as he collapsed into Rhodey’s hold, the harsh sounds of wretched sobs splitting the air. Rhodey blinked fiercely, holding the other man tighter in his grip, as if he could hold him together with strength alone. He cursed Tony for being the way he was -- cursed himself for loving him regardless. A damp patch grew on his shoulder, while they stood entwined for what could have been hours or minutes, in the dimly lit workshop. Rhodey’s eyes roamed freely, getting caught on the broken glass shattered on the floor a few feet from them. The remnants of Tony’s sanity, bared for him to see. Was that not what he was? Broken glass. Rhodey could hold him as tight as he could, and long for the pieces to mend themselves. But they wouldn’t, they couldn’t. They simply cut open his hands, left scars there, ragged and dangerous. 

It was worth it. If the blood running down his hands was the price for seeing Tony’s eyes light up when he solved the problem that had been weighing him down, he would pay it. If the myriad of scars across his palms was what it took to watch Tony smile at him, historic love as steady and sure as the sunrise in the quirk of his mouth, he would wear them with pride. And if that jagged, broken glass was all that was left of the boy he once knew, then he would hold on, with all his strength. Maybe they would never fix themselves, return to the creation they had once been, but perhaps he could smooth the edges. Let his reassurance and care be as steady as the waves of the sea, smoothing rocks and pebbles on the shore, until Tony’s edges were manoeuvrable, until they no longer scarred. As long as it takes. 

Tony’s sobs had evened into breathless, broken hiccups, the fingers that were clutching at Rhodey’s jacket loosening ever so slightly. “Fuck this.” He choked out, so hopelessly vacant that the Colonel's heart clenched painfully in his chest. 

“I know, Tony. I know.”

They pulled apart slowly, disconnecting in a way that left both of them feeling unusually empty. Tony dragged his sleeve across eyes, wiping away the tears that remained there. Rhodey caught the one on his cheek, taking a far more gentle touch than Tony did with himself. His phone buzzed, impeccable timing. After checking it briefly, he raised a cautious eyebrow at his friend. His beautiful, broken friend. 

“You’re coming upstairs. Pepper loaded up Diehard in the cinema room and she’s even letting you have junkfood. Once in a lifetime opportunity.” Underlying the comedic tone, was a plead. Beneath it, Rhodey had to admit, he was scared. There had been a few times in his life where he was truly afraid he would lose Tony -- not just for a few days while he sulked over something stupid, or when he locked himself away to work on a project, really lost him. One was when he lost his parents, a given, but the first was years before. Once at M.I.T, when Tony had been drunk and stupid and far, far too young to be doing the things he was. He was too young to have a drink his hand, too young to have girls trailing after him with predatory looks in their eyes. He was too young to have that blank look behind his eyes, the one practiced for cameras and publicity, the mask that gave nothing away. His heart bled, even then, for his stupid, young roommate.  
They had barely known each other for a week, hardly talked. But at three o’clock in the morning, full of drugs and drink and being propositioned with sex and fights and the lures of the forbidden, Rhodey couldn’t stand to watch it. He strode over and dragged him away, fighting to ignore his assaults, physical and verbal. Tony called him any name he could think of, his drunk punches and kicks as ineffective as his words.

Eventually, the tantrum developed into a long sullen silence, with Rhodey being on the receiving end of what would have been an impressive glare if they didn’t have to stop the taxi every now and then, so Tony could throw up all over the sidewalk. The arrival at the dorm rooms couldn’t come soon enough, and Rhodey deposited Tony on the bed none too gently. He knelt down to pull off his shoes, but Tony wrenched himself away. 

“Get the fuck off of me,” He spat, a surprising amount of vehemence for such a small person, “What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway? You dragged me all the way here, and for what?” Rhodey felt a surge of irritation towards the spiteful little brat huddled in the far corner of his bed. Not that he should expected appreciation from the great Tony Stark, of course. It made sense he knew no manners. 

As his mouth opened to reprimand him, their eyes met, for a fleeting second in the darkness, and something became suddenly clear. The little brat wasn’t completely angry, he looked confused. Rhodey thought about the people he had been seen with, the drugs and the drinks and the touch being placed so liberally upon the kid. Was he truly so used to that, that he genuinely could not comprehend Rhodey’s motivation. He tried to brush the thought aside, it made him sick, but he looked at him once more and knew it to be true.

The retort died on his tongue, he just reached for Tony’s ankle and tugged off his shoes, tossing them onto the floor. This time the young genius didn’t pull away, just remained tense, his question unanswered. 

“I’m taking care of you, keeping you safe.” Rhodey cleared his intentions, standing up to push Tony into a lying down position, before heading into the small kitchen area. 

“What, and that’s your job, is it?” He heard Tony call after him, sceptical at best. 

When Rhodey returned with a glass of water, he was passed out completely. Setting it down on the bedside table, he removed his jacket, pulled the covers over his body, oddly quiet and still and so, so small when his personality didn’t dominate the space around him. With a quiet sigh, he pushed Tony’s hair out of his eyes and turned off the light, “Someone has to.” 

Even now, he thought of that night. He wondered what conventional, unfulfilling life he would be leading if it were not for those eyes piercing him in a dark dorm room all those years ago. How easily he could have dismissed Tony as nothing more than an entitled billionaire who knew nothing of friendship. It was almost true, he really did know nothing. But as the months passed them by, it became all the clearer that it wasn’t out of choice. He knew Tony hated to talk about it, but Rhodey didn’t think that he had ever even had a real friend before. Perhaps some of the people he surrounded themselves had genuinely liked him, but they all had ulterior motives. They used him. 

As they scaled the stairs from the workshop, Rhodey was glad he was reminded of that day. The cinema room was set up for them all to sit in a mess of cushions and pillows. Pepper had thought carefully about the food, no cheeseburgers or pizza, despite that being the usual choice, but take out cartons of Italian food that Tony loved, tubs of ice cream defrosting. Soda, like they used to have when they were younger, only furthering Rhodey’s nostalgia, but all alcohol free. The three of them curled up there together, with Tony between his two best friends, and let the movie play. Nothing was between them that night, no responsibilities or wok or crisis. Only irreplaceable human contact where it was needed the most.

_Someone has to._

He had been right then, and he was right now. The sight of Tony with food hanging out of his mouth, gesticulating wildly with his one free hand and rambling about the film, however, dampened some of the fear inside him. Tony came close to slipping away sometimes, but he had Rhodey, and he had Pepper. He was falling, always seemed to be, but they caught him every time before he hit the ground.

Someone had to. 

 

 

* * *

“Stark.”

Tony dropped his tool with a startling clang and looked up, hand over his heart. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight of Steve Rogers, hanging aimlessly in the doorway of his workshop, as if calculating the risks of stepping inside. Rolling his eyes, Tony threw his hands in the air to emphasise the loud point he hoped to make, “Jesus Christ, Rogers! You can’t just sneak up on people like that, y’know? I have a heart condition!” He tapped his chest and stared at him plaintively, “We have enough fucking spies in the Tower without you joining their conniving, little club.” Grumbling finished, he looked upwards and put his hands together in a mock plea, “Clint, if you’re listening through the vents, please don’t snake on me to Nat. I value my life.”

If Tony didn’t know better – if he wasn’t _sure_ that Steven Grant Rogers hated his guts, from each snarky comment to every reckless manoeuvre – he could have sworn the man looked down to hide a tiny smile, tugging at the corners of his lips. “In my defence, I did knock. And cough. And say your name at least three times. I think you were sorta involved in whatever you have going on over there.”

“Yeah, well. I could explain it to you, but I think I’d lose a few brain cells even attempting to do so.” He quirked an eyebrow at the displaced soldier, finding it so at odds to see him here that he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Steve had never been down to the workshop before, not even in the entire month the Avengers had been living in the Tower. He assumed he avoided it because he had felt unwelcomed.

Well then, he’d be fucking right.

It wasn’t that they were enemies, per se, but after their rocky start on the Quinjet at their first meeting, their relationship hadn’t exactly been easy going. Despite the fact the sceptre had manipulated them to act so tense towards each other, it didn’t remove the biting comments and awful goads they had taken at one another. Both of them had said some heart wrenching things – even thinking about how he had belittled Steve on that day made him cringe. In return, when he reached some of his low points, he couldn’t deny that Steve’s comments featured quite prominently in his mind. To have your childhood idol stand three inches from you and tear you apart with a few sentences was a little scarring, and what was worse was that Steve was right.

Tony wasn’t a hero. There was nothing remotely heroic about the things he did. While Captain America was a hero purely based on his intact integrity, unfaltering bravery and tactical brilliance, to his utter dismay, Steve Rogers turned out to be every bit of a hero as Captain America was. He was kind, sympathetic, trusting and loyal to a fault. For Tony, he knew that Natasha Romanoff’s report had hit the nail right on the head. 

_Iron Man yes, Tony Stark not recommended._

His suit was a work of art, it changed the game and the world as they knew it. In the hands of someone like Steve, he would be perfect. But Tony Stark wasn’t recommended, he knew. Tony Stark was selfish, and took a little too much of everyone for himself. Tony Stark didn’t know the value of things -- spent too much time in the workshop and never knew when enough was enough. Tony Stark could barely tell the difference between right and wrong, he apparently couldn't for the first half of his life. Tony Stark did not play well with others. Maybe that was the root of all his problems with Steve. 

Throughout the first few weeks, Tony had been determinedly resolute to hate every inch of Steve Rogers. As far as he was concerned, the man was an arrogant prick, and the fact that he had somehow managed to deceive the whole of America, possibly the world, into believing in the pure, innocent persona that he displayed was both a miracle and a work of manipulation far, far beyond the scope of Steve’s intellect. The worst part was how certain he was. But as the weeks past, his frequent attempts to find faults in the soldier spiralled hopelessly into something futile. Days went by without incident, even with his aggravated probing and intentional goading. 

In fact, the more attention that he paid, the more he felt something far more akin to sympathy than anger for Steve Rogers. For instance, the man didn’t seem to seek much enjoyment in anything. At least Tony lived for his work. He breathed in code and exhaled physics. There was nothing that completed him more than the little sigh of relief when a project finally worked just as he told it too. Nothing compared to staring at blueprints of a design he knew would change things, make things better. Ironically, for someone who claimed to be a futurist, it had taken him a long time to learn what that really meant. It wasn’t about having the best tech, or knowing the most about engineering. It wasn’t the awards that lay discarded around his house, passed off to strangers or disposed of completely. It was a man with a vision, in what was essentially a basement, making things _better._

But this soldier woke at the same time every single day and went out for a run. He came home, ate breakfast and practiced his skills at the gym. He would cajole some other Avenger into running drills, testing simulations or sparring in an attempt to keep them on his toes. Sometimes he would read, by himself. Catching up on what he had missed, the culture he had lost. Movies and music, too. But Tony would catch him when he thought he was alone, no conversation to be had. His eyes would stare somewhat blankly over the pages, reading the words without feeling them. The approachable smile would fade from his lips. Tony Stark lived in fear of what more he could lose.

Steve Rogers had already lost everything he had ever known.

So perhaps that was why, in that tantamount moment of theirs, where Steve looked so hopeless in his doorway, and Tony was out of biting comments, he felt the tense pressure be released from his shoulders and he slumped against his desk. “It’s not fucking booby-trapped, you can come inside.” 

Almost instantly, Steve’s face lit up slightly, and he made his way inside. Tony then noticed that he was clutching his shield in his hand. That peaked his curiosity, alluding to the nature of the soldier’s visit. Well, could he expect some sort of social call? He even felt his fingers begin to itch at the sight of it; Steve hadn’t let him lay a hand on it since he had arrived (according to Hawkeye, he was apparently certain that Tony would attach rockets to it, or make it fly, or paint a dick on it -- all three of which he had considered). “What’s up with the shield, Capsicle?”

“Well,” Steve looked abashed, “I know that you’re insanely busy, I don’t want to impose on you, it’s stupid, really, but the shield is a little bashed up. It’s seen some fights since it was last taken care of,” that was certainly true, it had multiple chips, scrapes and scratches through the paintwork, and a repulsor scorch that Tony could specifically date back to the fight with the Chitauri fight, “And I was wondering, if you had the time, could you maybe do her paint for me?”

_”Her?”_ Tony scoffed, and Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Shut it, Stark, I heard you talking to those ‘bots just a second ago,” He gestured to Butterfingers and Dum-E with a sweep of his hands, both of which gave a series of excited beeps at finally being recognised and brought into the conversation. 

Tony spluttered and scrambled for his response, “What the hell, Rogers! How long were you standing there, you fucking creep!”

Steve only grinned wider, making his voice higher in a mockery of the genius. “‘Aw, good boy, Dum-E, don’t you listen to ‘Fingers. He’s just jealous ‘cause you’re my favourite. No, quit it, don’t barge into my leg, Dad actually has to work, so I can afford to keep you around, you bag of scraps.’”

Tony groaned, resigned to his long and painful death. “Fuck you. Rogers. Tell anyone about this and your shield is getting a very inventive makeover. You know Patrick from SpongeBob?” He tapped the star in the centre, “Right fucking here.”

“I have no clue who that is, but it sounds horrifying. Your secret is safe with me, Tony.”

It was the first time Steve had ever called him by his first name, and Tony would be a filthy liar if he didn’t pause for a moment. The easy repertoire of teasing and jokes that flowed between them felt easy and natural for the first time, instead of forced civility and impatient rebukes. For a moment, it almost felt as if they could be something more than teammates forced to work together. He was almost convinced that they were connected by something more than a common goal of kicking around bad guys. That maybe, when Steve squinted really hard, and untangled the web of bullshit that always surrounded what Tony said, if he grasped the difference between the words he spoke and what he really meant, and Tony didn’t let his cynical, pessimistic take on the world blind him to how genuine Steve was, they might just be able to get along. 

And Tony _wanted_ that for the first time. 

He wanted this familiar camaraderie, to be able to share a room with Steve and have the conversation descend into something other than petty arguments, muttered sentiments of pride and disapproval, cloaked in bitter one-liners and sharp smiles. He wanted Steve to turn up at the workshop without lingering on the threshold, questioning his every movement and choice of spoken word. He wanted Steve to think he was a hero, even when he didn’t think so himself.  
Wordlessly, he took the shield into his own hands and held it up, regarding it with an analytical gaze. “I think I can fix it.”

“Tony, you’re you. You can fix anything.”

Steve made a tactical retreat, after that tentative comment, most likely before he stumbled out something harsh and wrong and ruined what they had going. Tony stood, clutching the shield tightly in his hands and watching his retreating form. Mentally, he chastised himself. Those few words, a kind comment, was enough to leave him startled and at a loss for words. Pathetic. He was a grown man, seeking validation from some washed-up soldier who barely knew better than he did. But he couldn’t help but wonder whether Steve’s words reached further than sparking circuitry and complicated lines of code. 

Silently, he hoped with all he had, that Steve might be right.

 

It was a matter of days before Tony had the shield completely ready for Steve. Truth was, he was busy balancing other projects for Stark Industries and keeping the other Avengers safe. More than that, he wanted to make sure he did the job correctly. It would kill Steve to get the shield back with anything a millimetre out of place, and he figured that if he ever wanted to get his hands on the mysterious object again, he should watch his hands and his paintjob. When it was completely up to scratch, however, he finally looked up from his workshop binge and checked the time.

Three-thirty AM. The inventor physically deflated, slumping down into his seat. His impatient nature led him towards the idea of instant gratification rather than the relatively short wait until sunrise. Now that he was thinking of the idea, there was little that seemed more appealing to him than seeing a little half-smile on Steve’s face and maybe even receive one of those extremely rare, yet extremely valued, “nice job, Tony”s. That would be a good end to the night, something to try and smile about while he wrestled with nightmares under thousand-dollar silk sheets. The thinly veiled material did nothing to stop the taste of sand and sun on his tongue, his hands scrabbling at blood-stained bandages on his bruised chest, or the burn of heated metal welded crudely together, falling apart almost as easily as his perception of the world around him. In that cave, everything he once held to be true was swept away with the rolling dunes. His encapsulating mattress would provide no safe landing for when he fell so freely, with nothing but the void of space surrounding and consuming him, the portal slowly slipping closed. He never seemed to make it through in his dreams. 

Perhaps sometimes he wished he never had.

“Hey, JARVIS, is anyone awake?” He asked, more to jerk himself out of his own thoughts than stemmed from genuine curiosity. Sometimes when his thoughts started to drift in a dangerous direction and he began to forget completely how humans were supposed to interact with one another, it was probably best for him to leave the workshop for a while. Since the Avengers had moved in, he no longer had to suffer quite so alone in the middle of the night. They all kept odd hours – perhaps, except from Bruce, who kept a strict sleep schedule that helped to keep the Hulk at bay – so, more often than not, when Tony needed to see another person’s face they weren’t too far away. 

“Ms Romanoff is awake on her floor, and Captain Rogers appears to be on the common floor.” JARVIS indulged him in a quiet tone. 

“Steve – he what?” Tony looked up in confusion. The man was rarely caught in the communal area at this hour, as far as the genius knew, he was usually asleep at this time. It felt strange, but he decided that there was no time like the present to give the man his equipment back. Sliding off of his stool and shouldering the reflective hunk of metal, he took the elevator to the correct floor of the Tower. While on his way up, he analysed the possibilities of Steve’s unusual routine change. Being awake wasn’t too strange, but the choice of location was certainly interesting. It begged the question: did Steve need to see someone, too? After all, the chances of running into one of the other Avengers was highest on the common floor, why else would he be there? Alternatively, Steve had just forgotten his shitty book or something and had run down to fetch it, and Tony was projecting his own anxieties onto Steve. 

Yeah, most likely that. 

The elevator doors slid open and revealed the dimly lit space, so Tony followed the faint sound of movement towards the kitchen. There, he saw Steve, making hot cocoa (he had the audacity to make it in a _pan_ too, not even the microwave). “Midnight snack?” He asked, leaning against the doorway. If Rogers had been anyone relatively normal, he would have jumped out of his skin, but as it was, he simply whipped around from the stove with a hardened expression. It melted when he laid his eyes on Tony, however, and he turned back around so that Tony faced his back. 

“C’mon, don’t tell me that some nights aren’t just hot cocoa nights.” The super soldier shrugged, but there was a heaviness behind his words that wasn’t usually present. Steve was always the optimistic one, the statue of virtue. He picked up the team when they were down, painted such a beautiful sunrise for them that they couldn’t consider not waking up to see it. Tony considered, for the first time, that the whole job sounded awfully tiring. 

“Not since I was about four years old.” He retorted, crossing the kitchen so that he could peer over Steve’s shoulder at the steaming pan below him. As much as he hated to admit it, the smell was incredible, and he watched with a tired sort of mesmerisation as Steve stirred the pot. 

“Just get two mugs out.” Steve shoved Tony’s chin off his shoulder playfully – which Tony didn’t even remember _putting_ there, so he really must be tired – and the genius followed his instructions. As he did so, he furrowed his brow and tried to pinpoint what was so different about this conversation than the ones they used to share. Remarks like the one he made used to be met with something as equally biting. 

“You’re not even gonna be mad at me?” He questioned before he could bite his tongue, placing the two mugs on the surface and raising his eyebrow at Steve. It was playing on his mind now, and he wanted to know. What had changed Steve’s mind? Tony watched as the soldier’s shoulders froze up momentarily, his movements jerking abruptly. Sharp as a knife – and _there_ was the Steve that no civilian got to see, the Steve that could snap a man in two, could kill Tony without a thought if he so desired. It sent a shudder through his body, and he looked away, avoiding the eye contact. 

“I received some advice,” Steve admitted, his words careful and slow, “to listen to you.”

“Almost always a mistake, really,” Tony shrugged his shoulders.

_"Really_ listen to you,” Steve continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption at all, “and hear what you actually mean without all that bullshit you wrap it in.”

“Did you just swear at me?”

“You’re doing it now, Tony.” Grinning at him, an almost proud kind of smile, the Captain distributed the drink into the two mugs and handed one to the man standing somewhat shell-shocked in front of him, “But you can’t fool me, Stark. You are an open book, you know. Just…” He waved his free hand to illustrate, “written in code, maybe. And now I’ve cracked it. Well, mostly,” he admitted with a small shrug, “sometimes I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. But give me time.” 

How ironic, the man who had already waited for seventy years, asking Tony for more time. Slowly, he took a long sip of his cocoa, unsure of what to think. In the back of his mind, he wanted to know who had snaked him out in a heart to heart with Steve, but his primary focus was his initial reaction. After all, a wrong move here could set them back all the way to square one. So he took a breath and considered the most important questions to ask. “This book,” he played with the metaphor, “it’s something that you would want to read?” His words were slightly incredulous. 

“Very much so,” Steve replied, achingly sincere. 

Biting back the ‘why?’ that almost spilled over his tongue, Tony simply nodded instead. “Well, it would be rude of me to make this hard for you, I suppose.” With a grin, he gestured towards the couch. “I’m not planning to sleep much tonight, are you gonna let me catch you up on some Disney?” It was possibly the most childish thing to offer, but catching Steve awake at this time of night probably meant the man wasn’t too emotionally steady, and something light was probably the safest choice. Suddenly remembering his actual purpose for being there, he grabbed the shield from where he’d placed it on a surface and handed it to his partner. “This is why I came down in the first place. She’s all done.” 

Tony had been right, the half-smile at the paintjob and the reluctant use of the pronoun was worth it a million times over. 

 

Waking up the next morning was certainly an experience for Tony. Whilst coming around to consciousness sunken into a couch was in no way unusual for him -- the couch in the lab was comfortable and there had been many day long binges that left him far too exhausted to stomach the idea of making his way up to the penthouse -- but he had to admit the feeling of legs tangled between his and arms wrapped tightly around his chest was something unexpected. Rebooting his mental circuits, the pieces of the puzzle began to slip together and he felt his face flush warmly. He and Steve had ended up watching Robin Hood, the stupid Disney version, which had mostly consisted of Tony saying, “you!” emphatically every time Robin Hood so much as breathed, and Steve’s initial protests growing weaker as the film wore on. 

At first, they had sat apart from one another (leaving room for Jesus or something, and remaining a professional distance). However, once Tony payed closer attention and noted the way Steve’s body wracked with shivers, he was helpless but to grab the nearest blanket and return to the couch, throwing it over his new friend and taking his now cold mug from his hand. “JARVIS, turn up the heating, would you?” The room was perfectly warm, warmer than usual, even, but Tony was wise enough to guess it was phantom ice that raised the bumps on Steve’s forearms and trickled painfully through his veins. As he turned to move away and return to his own seat, the other caught him by surprise and caught his arm, tugging him down so that he tumbled pretty much onto the soldier.

“Steve, wh--” Tony attempted to question, but Steve cut him off, pointing at the screen where the lion embodiment of King John began to throw a tantrum. 

“You.”

With an enraged gasp, Tony shifted so that he was no longer _on top of_ Steve, and tugged one half of the blanket was over himself. It felt strange, for a minute, as he sat with bated breath and tense shoulders. Where did he put his hands? Did he lean on Steve? Is that what he wanted? Thinking about it logically for a moment, it was easier to picture the situation as a mission. After all, even in the relatively short time the team had been together, this wasn’t the first time he had been in some sort of confined space with his fellow teammate, kidnapped and put in cells, trapped under rubble, even one fateful time when the elevator on a helicarrier had shut down during an attack, though he admitted, that was almost comical. But at the end of the day, it was his partner sitting beside him, and if they were stranded in some blizzard right now, and Steve was freezing his ass off, would Tony hesitate? Steve needed him right now, and whether it was as a friend, or as a teammate, the genius resolved not to be so useless. 

Throwing a lazy arm around Steve’s middle and determinedly ignoring how ridiculously stone-like he felt and let his head fall onto his shoulder, shifting closer. With his free hand, he carefully took one of Steve’s hands in his own and began to warm him up. The soldier gaped and let out a long breath, closing his eyes shut tight. “You’re so warm.” He stuttered out, melting into the hold. Tony didn’t bother to inform him that Steve actually ran so hot that he felt like a furnace to the touch, because he figured it wouldn’t help much. 

“Yeah, much warmer now. You’re missing the film.” Tony comforted him quietly, pleased when the tremors shaking the soldier’s body began to cease slightly into something far less violent. Wearily opening his eyes, Steve attempted to focus on the film. The engineer did the same, but it was hard not to be distracted by his mission of bringing Steve out of the ice (for the second time). He noticed more and more weight be pressed against his side and eventually the slow, even rise and fall of Steve’s chest tipped him off to his sleeping state. The only problem that remained was that, well, Tony was trapped. He could push the other off, of course, but now that he was close enough to see the black bags that adorned Steve’s eyes it didn’t seem like much of an option. Hopelessly, he tried to watch the film that was still playing and wait it out until morning. 

It had been a complete and utter failure, Tony decided as he finally dragged his eyes open and assessed the situation. They were no longer sitting side by side, rather lying across the length of the couch wrapped up in the blanket. He was facing Steve, and felt no particular motivation to move just yet. He hated that Steve looked utterly angelic in the morning, his hair sufficiently mussed out of that combover and falling into his eyes. Slumping back down further into the cushions, Tony resolved to play dead until Steve woke up. He could deal with it, then. 

Of course, in his sleep and Steve addled haze, he forgot to factor in an important factor; this was the common floor. 

“Wow, that one is cute.” The obnoxious snap of a camera phone and Clint’s voice startled them both into a wakened state, and Tony almost fell off of the couch in surprise. Out of instinct, Steve caught him with one arm around his waist and pulled him close again, letting out a very displeased sort of sound at having lost his pillow apparently. “Stop being fucking gross on the common floor, or it’s going to Twitter.” Clint warned them, throwing a pillow as hard as he could across the room, and being Hawkeye, it smacked Tony in the back of the head. 

He actually heard Steve _growl_ of all things, and dissolved into laughter. “Cap, you gotta let me go, I have a war to win.” He protested, feeling weirdly light as he pushed at the other Avenger. 

“We aren’t a team or somethin’?” Steve’s drawl was positively beautiful in the morning, and without further ado, he hoisted Tony into his arms and handed him a pillow. 

“Put me down!” It startled another laugh out of him, and he waved his hands indignantly, “Iron Man does solo missions, Cap!" He said plaintively, but Steve didn’t pay him any attention as they headed towards the kitchen. Moving into the kitchen, Tony took aim and threw the pillow as hard as he could into Clint’s bowl on cereal. It spilled spectacularly over him. which Tony counted as a brilliant victory. 

“Aw, breakfast.” Clint looked down at his ruined shirt and watched the liquid spill over the tabletop and drip onto the floor. Steve deposited Tony onto a seat and went to get a cloth to clean up the mess they had made. 

“Why is the milk brown?” Tony asked the archer, vaguely repulsed. 

“It’s coffee.”

“Why do you have coffee in your cereal?”

“I have training with Nat in five minutes, I didn’t have time for both! And now I have time for none thanks to you and Loverboy.”

“That’s disgusting.” Tony accused, wrinkling his nose. 

“Yeah.” Clint agreed, watching as Tony poured himself a bowl of the exact same concoction. Steve groaned as he made his way over to the table, cleaning up the spill and looking in utter disgust at the bowl of Frosted Flakes and cold coffee that Tony was making good headway through. 

“You’re both going to _die.”_ Steve insisted, exasperated, “Just let me make you some French Toast or something.” Clint whistled appreciatively at the offer and winked at Tony. 

“He really does want your ass, Stark, are you hearing this?” Clint taunted, dumping his bowl in the sink and heading for the door.

“I hope Nat kills you!” Tony called cheerfully before glancing at Cap, “No can do. I also have an angry redhead waiting for me that will remove my testicles if I’m late.” He watched as the soldier visibly deflated, before he straightened himself out and nodded. Tony abandoned the rest of his frankly disgusting bowl of cereal and stood, stretching and heading to the door. 

“Tony!” Steve blurted, causing the genius to pause and turn on his heel, “Thanks for helping me last night… I really needed it.” The vulnerable smile that crossed Steve’s face did funny things to Tony’s chest and made it ache, so he flipped Steve a sloppy salute and grinned back at him. 

“Anytime, Cap.” And he meant it. From now on, he knew, Steve was more than his teammate on the field, he was his teammate off of it, too. He had done it, everything he wanted, in just a matter of days. He could even consider them to be friends now, if he so desired. So Tony headed upstairs to get ready for his board meeting and tried not to feel too awfully incomplete. 

 

 

 

* * *

“Shellhead, I can tell when you’re bullshitting me.” Steve clasped his shoulder and shook his head, rolling his eyes with a familiar mixture of exasperation and amusement. 

“Alright, I am. But I lost a bet to Clint and I promised I would take us paintballing. So pretty please?” Tony shrugged his shoulders, raising his hands in a mock surrender as he grinned at his best friend. It had been months since Steve had moved into the Tower, but it seemed like so much longer than that. The man was now an essential part of his life, the last part of the machine that the mechanic had been looking for. 

“Fine, but if you call it a training exercise, I’m going to shoot you.”

 

He called it a training exercise. The Avengers piled into their transport and made their way to a huge paintballing arena that Tony arranged to be completely empty for them. Clint was more than excited, practically jumping up and down as he slid out of the Landrover and attempted to infect Natasha with his enthusiasm (it was not working in the slightest). Tony joined them a second later, the suit touching down on the car park with a metallic clang. He joined the others as they walked through the door, trying not to laugh at how horrendously out of place they looked trekking into such a normal place in full uniform.  
They didn’t need to sign in, and Tony made payment as the other began to listen to the safety talk and look at the equipment. He felt a touch at his elbow and turned around to see Steve, looking slightly surprised. “What’s up, Capslock?” He asked, sensing the other man’s confusion.  
“You’re wearing the armour?”

Tony frowned at him, “When do I not when we’re training?” He replied, shrugging his shoulders and feeling slightly defensive. 

“I thought it was more of a stealth thing.” Steve commented thoughtfully, and he had a point there. After all, the armour wasn’t exactly the quietest weapon, that was more Widow’s game. 

“Yeah, well. You win some, lose some, huh? Besides, it’s not like I can just not wear it to training. That’s like turning up to a charity gala in your fucking pyjamas.” He snorted derisively, still unsure of what Steve was even trying to suggest. 

“That’s definitely something you would do, Shellhead. And I think you’re wrong, too.”

“How so?” Even now, his mind jumped to that SHIELD character report. _Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark not recommended._ It was as if Steve could read his mind, because he shook his head.

“Well, the team is lucky enough to have you, as Iron Man and Tony Stark. I think it’s stupid not to utilise them both.”

“We do.” Tony wrinkled his nose as if Steve could actually see it and waved the credit card between his fingers. It was an obvious mistake, because the Captain looked downright horrified at his response, practically grabbing his pearls in shock. 

Regarding him for one more moment, Steve looked almost hurt. “If you don’t think that I wouldn’t trust Tony Stark to have my back on the field as much as I trust Iron Man, we aren’t as close as I thought we were.”

“Steve—“ The man retreated before Tony could explain himself any further, and he cursed under his breath. Watching him rejoin the team, he hesitated for a moment and inhaled deeply. Fuck this. He hated that Steve’s word meant so much to him, he had spent a long time learning to shrug off people’s opinions. Living the life that he did, it was an essential skill. But everything was different when it came to Steve. As much as he despised it, he did care about the other more than he could put into words, he wanted him to be proud of him, not disappointed. 

He was so fucking whipped, he thought as he shook his head and reached for the release catches on his suit. 

It felt strangely naked to approach the team in full uniform when he was just wearing his undersuit, while everyone else was geared up and looking prepared to run into battle at a second’s notice. He was met with a bunch of confused looks, but he focused on the grin that was currently threatening to break Steve’s face. It made it worth it, just about. Still, he glared at him anyway, since this was all his fault. 

“Is someone gonna give me a gun or what?” 

They dressed up in the protective gear and goggles, before they were allowed to run into the huge play area, that had both indoor and outdoor instalments. Tony immediately followed Steve’s sprinting towards a heavily wooded section of the outdoors, trusting him since he had actually had a chance to study the map while Tony had been ditching the suit and making sure it was in a safe spot. The man didn’t actually say anything about teaming up or something of the sort, but they all knew the agreement was two hits and you’re out for good. However, they were a team, and they tended to make alliances in all their team exercises. The thing was, it didn’t matter what stupid over-glorified game they were playing, Tony and Steve were always on the same side. Tony couldn’t even remember when it started, and when the team accepted it as a fact, but it just happened. They fought like no-one else, forming a bond similar to that of Natasha and Clint in the months they had spent together. It felt like they had spent a lifetime on the field. Between Steve’s tactical smarts and determination and Tony’s creative and out of the box thinking and risk taking, everything just seemed to fit. They balanced one another out, and even their little arguments (lover’s tiffs, as the rest of the team referred to them), had this sort of ease and flow to them. 

So, as a fundamental law of Physics, Iron Man and Captain America were a team. 

It stood to reason that Natasha and Clint teamed up for the most part – although they did have a habit of turning on each other for fun or revenge at any given time – and Thor and Bruce had a close friendship, too, so everyone paired off nicely. Of course, Bruce didn’t tend to participate that much, but he usually came along to offer his thinking and support where he could.

Dodging between the trees, Tony trusted Steve’s instincts and they came to a stop at a small wooden hut near the edge of the arena. “What’s it gonna be today, Man With a Plan?” Tony asked, still unsure of where his approach lay when he was out of the armour. After all, an aerial assault was now out of the question, his infa-red tech was gone, and he was essentially useless. “This shack was just a speck on the map, I was kinda curious as to what it was.” Steve replied.

“Meaning we have a good advantage. We have a base that no-one else knows exists.” Tony nodded his head, dipping inside to look around, “But we still need to think about how to play this. I think we need to go on the offensive, there’s no use sitting around and waiting to be the last players in the game.” Considering that when applying their skills in the real world. The Avengers very rarely (never) had the opportunity to sit around and let the bad guys cancel each other out, it didn’t make sense to use that strategy in training either. “It’s more of a question of order.”

“And a question of who is hunting for us while we’re hunting for them.” Steve added pointedly. 

Thinking for a moment, Tony smiled. “Well, I know one thing for sure. Last night, when Clint was watching America’s Next Top Model, Thor came in to join him.” Steve simply frowned at him when he began to tell the story, not understanding the significance of Clint’s trashy television show habits until the genius continued, “But the important part was that when Clint asked him to turn up the volume, Thor broke the fucking remote again and I had to fix it this morning. Clint kept complaining that Thor then proceeded to talk and laugh loudly throughout the entire thing because he didn’t understand what was going on.”

“So?”

“So, Captain Caveman, Clint is still a little bit mad at Thor, meaning he’s target number one. So Clint and Nat will be hunting them down first.” Tony finished, rolling his eyes. 

“That’s perfect. Alright, we should find Clint and Nat, and with any luck they’ve already taken out Bruce and Thor by that point, or they at least know where to find them, and the game will be ours. Good thinking, Shellhead.”

“Yeah, sure. Totally not because we’re on a team of _fucking five year olds.”_ Tony retorted, but he grinned at his partner all the same. They began to move through the woods, sticking close to the boundary of the arena so that the directions an enemy could approach from were strictly limited. 

“When they ran off, Natasha and Clint headed towards more of the outside area. There’s a combat-like zone with trenches and barricades, but that is neither of their styles, so if I placed my bets, I would say they’re hiding out in the field of long grass for now.”

“It makes sense, somewhere to utilise their stealth rather than military tactics. They know you would run circles around them.” 

“Was that a sincere compliment I just heard?”

“It’s not a compliment, it’s just a fact.” Tony brushed him off, shaking his head. 

“Whatever you say. Hey, if there’s something you need to tell me…” Steve replied, mock sincere.

“Note to self, _never_ compliment Cap, he does not take it graciously. In fact, just throw the whole uniform away, he’s tricked us all.”

“So, it _was_ a compliment.” The delight was palpable in his tone.

“You know what, Ca—” Exactly what was left to be continued, since Tony cut off his own sentence and grabbed Steve’s arm, yanking him harshly so that he fell onto his knees in the waist-high foliage, “You know what,” he continued in a much lower tone, “Widow and Birdie are about four hundred metres away, at two o’clock.” Steve nodded his head and response, making sure they stayed out of view from anyone looking in their direction. 

“You take one and I take the other?” Steve offered simply, raising a brow. Under usual circumstances, this would have been the perfect choice. Either that, or Iron Man could distract them from above while Steve snuck up behind them. But now, he shook his head reluctantly. 

“That’s an Iron Man and Cap strategy. We’re in their terrain. The chances of us getting close enough to get two clean shots on them without them seeing us is near to impossible, and without the suit I don’t have the speed to make it work. Thanks to you, I might add.” Steve looked unphased by the disappointing news, still seemingly grateful to have Tony on the team for some Godforsaken reason. 

“Let’s think about this. If they have a weakness, it’s because they’re a little _too_ cut throat. You would think they both got enough tough love from Fury, you know?” Steve snorted at him and gestured for him to get to the point, “What I’m saying is that they’re equally as likely to turn on one another as they are to turn on us. Maybe with a push in the right direction they might do exactly that.” For a moment, after his suggestion, Steve gained the weirdest expression in his eyes. Something soft, that was completely out of place on a battlefield, even one that contained paintballs and long grass. However, before Tony could call him out on whatever little out of body experience he was having, Steve pushed it off his face and returned to his normal serious self. 

“I have a plan.” Dipping his head briefly over the greenery, seemingly to confirm something for a few moments, he then returned his gaze to his teammate, “They’re following a regular scouting pattern, seemingly making their way towards the military area slowly. If I had to take a guess, it’s where they would expect me, therefore you, to hide out. Whether they already have the other two is unclear, but they haven’t taken any damage yet. So you need to wrap around one side, and I need to wrap around the other.”

“That’s brilliant. They’re facing away from one another because they have each other’s backs. So If I shoot Nat in the back and you shoot Hawkeye…”

“They’ll instantly assume it was the other, and either shoot one another for us, or give us all the distraction we need.” Steve finished his sentence and grinned widely at him. Maybe this Tony Stark thing might just work out, after all, though he still maintained it would have been a lot quicker with the suit. 

Nodding once more, the two parted ways and very slowly began to crawl through the grass, staying low and keeping their movements as unobtrusive as possible in order not to disturb the greenery more than possible. Once he was in position, he lifted up his hand to give a brief signal to Steve, catching the flash of his hand over the tips of the grass. One. Two. Three. As soon as the mental countdown hit that number, Tony darted up and fired a quick shot that hit Nat right in the shoulderblades, and he heard a matching curse word from Clint that confirmed Steve had also hit his mark. Without even stopping to consider, Clint utilised his perfect aim to fire a retaliation shot at Widow after barley a glance, that struck her in the ribs. Her look of pure rage sent her lining up her shot, but unlike her quick-tempered partner, she saw the splash of violently pink paint that stained Clint’s uniform and lowered her weapon, spinning around to find the real source. Knowing Steve was about to be spotted under her watchful gaze, Tony fired off another few shots at Hawkeye, who protested loudly immediately and caused Natasha to glance back over her shoulder for just a second. It was all Steve and his supersoldier reflexes needed to rise from the thick weeds he was submerged in and shoot her a second time. 

“Fuck you guys.” Clint whined, glaring at them both. Natasha snorted at him and gestured to her second ‘wound’. 

“Fuck you, more like, you’re the one that killed me.”

“Oh please, like you wouldn’t have actually shot me.”

“Can’t imagine why.” She replied dryly, still pointing at the offensive paint splash. 

“Whatever.” He replied moodily, throwing his hands in the air as Tony and Steve crossed the remaining distance and joined them both. Clint glared at them sulkily and, despite the Captain’s good sportsmanship and polite smile, it was undermined by Tony flipping Clint the bird over Steve’s shoulder and smirking.  
“Did you find the others yet?” Steve asked, reloading his gun as he began to plan for their next assault.

“And why should we tell you that?” Clint scoffed, still playing the game for all intents and purposes.

“I’ll make you pancakes for a week.” Steve replied instantly, and all hostility immediately and quickly left Clint’s body as he smiled wide and spread his arms.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Ignoring Tony’s disgruntled muttering about negotiating with terrorists, Steve listened to Natasha recount their story so far. It turns out they had tracked Thor and Bruce to the indoor section of the arena, but they had been diverted by Bruce who surrendered to them peacefully and asked to be taken back to the entrance, because he had no idea where it was, apparently, and didn’t want to risk being in the stressful environment anymore. However, once they reached the entrance, Bruce had very cheerfully informed them that they had just been rused, and he had simply been giving Thor a chance to evacuate and get the Hell out of there. “And I thought Tony was far enough up Steve’s ass,” Clint smirked, “Bruce is giving you a run for your money with his loyalty to Thor, huh?”

Tony responded by unloading another round onto Clint, and Steve didn’t even protest. “Ow! That shit hurts point blank!” He scowled at them. 

Thanking them for the information, Steve and Tony made their way towards the military set-up section. The genius hopped up onto one of the blockades and swung his legs childishly while Steve stood facing him. In the distance, he watched Clint and Natasha run in opposite directions across the field, undoubtedly having set up a one-on-one match to make up the most of the time they had in the paintball arena. “What are we thinking?”

“We’re thinking about where Thor went with his borrowed time.”

“That’s obvious, isn’t it? Nowhere. He’s probably still in the indoor arena, since Bruce told the others he would have run by now. They expected him to leave into the grassland, but he clearly wasn’t there, and we scoped most of the woods while we made our way around the edge, so the chances he was there are small. Considering I don’t see him popping out of a trench either, my bet is on a double bluff. He’s got himself a perfect little spot up in there, thanks to Brucie, and he’s expecting us.”

“I think you must be right, so how do we approach this?”

“You’re asking me?” Tony protested, pausing to think regardless, “I’d say there’s only one approach. Thor is a Hell of a fighter, but he’s not the most tactical of thinkers. It’s obvious that the trick was Bruce’s ploy. Thor likes things to be a fair fight most of the time, battle is a noble thing in his culture. We can use that. We have no idea where he is in there, and it’s pretty much a dimly lit play area. I think that I storm in there, full drama queen, and make sure he thinks that he and I are the only remaining players. Thor has every and all chances of beating me in a hand to hand, so that should draw him out of wherever he is. Give me a few moments to make sure he hears me, then you come in. He won’t have planned for you and it’ll probably be an easy shot. How does that sound?”

Steve hesitated, “That’s too dangerous,” he complained, “it definitely would be in real life. I’d never let you go in there alone.” 

“Oh please, you’d never let Bruce falsely surrender himself in real life, too.”

“Principles.” Steve shot back, folding his arms and setting his jaw in that stubborn way of his. 

“You know I would do it in real life, with your shitty permission or not.” Tony shrugged derisively. 

“And I _hate_ that.” Steve replied emphatically, his hard look softening into something painstakingly sorrowful. 

“It’s part of the job, Steve.”

“Part of my job is keeping you safe.” The Captain countered.

“Why do you think I’m distracting him? That way I get to keep you safe. Just because you’re the stupid Captain, that isn’t gonna stop me from having your back.”

“That I do know.” Steve shook his head, an edge of fondness creeping back into his words, which made Tony relax a little more. He took the opportunity to fix Steve with the most imploring stare that he could muster, a tactic Iron Man couldn’t have used behind that mask, he thought ironically. Steve visibly considered and then seemed to come to a decision with himself.

“Fine, but you’re taking this.” He reached behind his back and pulled the shield from its holder, shoving it into Tony’s hands, who spluttered appropriately, “Just shut that damn mouth and use it. It makes sense.” He hated to admit it, but it did make a lot of sense. Tony had no idea where Thor would be coming from, and the extra protection could easily be the difference between him being wounded and him being killed. 

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, Shellhead.” Tony truly hated how his weak, beaten up heart jumped at those words as if they were said in anything but a joking tone. It was a thought so beyond possibility that he never indulged in it, out of fear for hurting himself further. 

With that, he nodded and slid his arm into the handle of the shield, the other holding his gun. Together, they headed towards the indoor area. There was a double door that led to it, and Tony creaked open one of them while Steve stayed pressed flat against the other. “Good luck.” He mouthed silently as Tony disappeared inside into the darkness. There were a few coloured lights that stopped the place from being completely pitch black and smoke machines obscured some of the floor with their winding tendrils. Taking a breath, Tony began to yell.

“Hey, Thor! Where are you? It’s just you and me, big guy, the rest have been taken out. Are you hiding in here, or something?” He called out, his voice sounding amused, “Didn’t really think that was your style. Thor hiding from the enemy. Ouch.” He moved over the big foam blocks deeper into the area, moving through the maze-like jungle gym. This wouldn’t give Steve much of a clear shot, so he assessed the place to find the best place. To his dismay he noted that the only place that would give a clear shot from the door was the fucking ball bit. 

God, he hated Clint. 

Reluctantly making his way in that direction, Tony continued his taunts. “C’mon, man, don’t leave me waiting. Some of us have shit to do, y’know. Real jobs, adult things.” He heard the creak and dived, straight into that god-damned ball pit as soon as he registered the sound, the shield covering as much of his side as was possible. The paintballs made a metallic thunk as they exploded over the vibranium. Thor emerged from one of the higher ledges, and Tony fired a couple of rounds off in his direction. One grazed his thigh while the others simply missed. 

“Hey, Thor!” Tony called loudly, as he jumped down to a lower ledge and aimed his gun, taking another few shots at Tony. He managed to block the first three with the aid of the shield, but the last one managed to hit his abdomen. Just as Tony was beginning to wonder where in the _fuck_ Steve had gotten too, he heard the sounds of the doors being burst open and the sounds of shots. Three shots, all of which hit Thor’s back, and he heard the God’s disappointed groan. 

“Deceived.” He murmured, sounding so genuinely hurt that Tony burst out laughing. Steve crossed the room and offered him a hand, only causing him to laugh harder. 

“What the actual fuck is this team? We’re supposed to be saving the world, and I’m lying in this fucking ball pit while Captain America offers me a hand.” His laughter was apparently infectious, because Steve cracked up while he veritably lifted him out of the brightly coloured pit, and Thor’s booming laughter assaulted his ears, too. 

“We can’t be saving the world twenty four hours a day, I suppose.” Steve tried to get a hold of himself while Tony handed him the shield back. “And I asked you not to get shot nicely and everything.” He sighed in mock disappointment at the paint stain on Tony’s under suit and attached the shield to his back, “Should I bridal carry you back, Shellhead?”

“I’ll give you a couple of paint stains if you try.” Tony retorted, ducking under his arms swiftly.

“I’m the dead one. I think Steven should carry me back.” Thor grinned at them as they all headed towards the entrance again and told the instructor that the game was over. He was nice enough to announce it over the speakers, and Natasha and Clint joined them a few minutes later, looking very brightly coloured and pleasantly amused. “Wow, have fun getting these stains out, Stark.” Clint gestured to his positively neon uniform, and Tony heard Steve snort.

“I don’t think so, Hawkeye,” Steve chastised him.

“Aw, codename.”

“You wanted to go paintballing so bad, you can clean up the mess. I expect my shield to be looking good as new the next time we gear up. I’m sure Tony’ll be nice enough to lend you some sponges and some polish, though.” Tony grinned widely from where he was packing up the suit, feeling a warm feeling spread all the way through him, despite Clint’s muttering about favouritism. It was Steve, always Steve, that reminded him that maybe he didn’t have to do everything alone. Everyone needed a little polish, he supposed. Perhaps it wasn’t just him.

Looking up, he met Steve’s eyes and thanked him with his gaze, receiving a nod in return. Thanking the owners of the place for putting up with them all, they trekked back out of the place and bundled back into their cars, the armour awkwardly crammed into the boot. Once they arrived back at Avengers Tower, most of the team immediately headed straight for their floors to take a nice long shower and examine all their little bruises. Steve caught his arm before he could disappear and smiled at him. “See, I told you it would go fine.”

“I would have been a lot quicker with Iron Man.” Tony pointed out, since it was probably true. Steve didn’t seem to hold much to his statement.

“Maybe. It was a lot more fun with Tony Stark, though.” He pointed out, before he moved away to head towards the elevator, stained shield in hand. Shocked, Tony stood still for a moment, completely unsure how he felt. He managed to snap out of it just in time, making an impulsive dash through the elevator doors so he joined Steve, much to his obvious surprise.

“I—” Tony had no idea what he was trying to say, “You should know that I really like Steve Rogers, too, you know? Not that Captain America isn’t cool, but… Steve Rogers is the guy that pretends to like Star Trek at three o’clock in the morning sometimes, and cooks breakfast for the team because he thinks we’re gonna die of malnutrition and gave all of his backpay to the VA and—and—” To be polite, Tony was a stuttering mess and he wasn’t even sure what he was rambling on about. He half expected Steve to just tell him to shut up. 

Steve definitely did not tell him to shut up. 

In one sudden movement, he had his arm around Tony’s waist and was kissing him with the passion of a dying man, as if he would never again have the chance. Taken by surprise for the second time in two minutes, Tony froze up, causing them to stumble backwards against the wall of the elevator, most likely pushing a thousand buttons. Once he actually processed the fact that Steve was _kissing him, Steve was fucking kissing him, what the fuck was happening and why was Steve kissing him,_ Tony relaxed and started kissing him back. To his dismay, just as he began to do so, Steve ripped himself away from the genius, flushed bright red. 

“Oh God, Tony. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” Steve gasped out, practically shaking from panic, “I don’t know what I was thinking, I—”

“Steve, what the fuck—” Tony’s protest at Steve having stopped was interrupted by the ding of the elevator and then Steve was gone, slipped through the doors at the first opportunity. He fled, leaving Tony to stare dumbly after him with burning lips and an ache in his chest that he thought he had managed to dull. 

Steve had kissed him.

Steve had run away.

Steve didn’t even know what he was thinking. 

 

Steve didn’t want him. 

 

Tony didn’t follow Steve out of the elevator onto his floor, he simply changed to direction of the lift so that it headed straight down to the workshop. It was his number one response to any situation, after all, simply drowning himself in his work. At least then he didn’t have to deal with the frankly terrible concept of other people – that always did go wrong for him, didn’t it? Everything he touched, everyone he loved, got sick of him in one aspect or another. Even Steve, beautiful, brilliant Steve, couldn’t stand the thought of actually being with him. Why did he kiss him in the first place? Did he feel sorry for him? Was it that obvious how he felt about Steve? Perhaps he was just overwhelmed at the mouth vomit that Tony was throwing up all over him, perhaps he was confused about his sexuality and needed to test it out. Tony didn’t know.

But he tried to hate Steve, anyway. He tried his very, very best to hate Steve for kissing him. It was indescribably cruel of him, and that was one thing Steve was not. In all these months, Tony had kept his feelings to himself. When he started crushing on the Captain, Tony had done his best to brush it off. It was lingering hero worship, he had tried to convince himself. Even when the feelings had proved to be consistent, and Tony found himself longing to kiss his friend in the early hours of the morning when they confessed their nightmares in hushed tones, he had not dared. He knew Steve wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly, want someone like him. Even when, _even when_ they had stood around after a battle and Steve had tugged off his cowl, sweaty and dirty and exhausted, and grinned so brightly at Tony like the ray of sunshine in the darkness that he was, and Tony had stood there and thought, ‘fuck, I’m so in love with you’, he had said nothing. He knew Steve deserved more than he could ever give him. 

He had been scared, of course, that he would let his feelings slip. That he would be too obvious, and Steve would catch on. That one day when he thought a little too much about kissing him that he would just do it. But he had never expected Steve to kiss him first. Give him a taste of what he could never have and rip it away. 

Steve wasn’t cruel, was he?

Sitting alone in the dim workshop, it became harder and harder to convince himself otherwise. He longed for the simple escape that lied within a bottle of whiskey, some weak part of his brain trying to convince himself that the world might look a little better from the bottom of a bottle. He rattled through his desk drawers until he found his twelve months sober chip and turned it carefully between his fingers, trying to focus on keeping his hands busy. 

The workshop was on lockdown, the glass turned oblique to an outsider looking in, similar to the effect of one way glass. Tony was in no way prepared to deal with anyone right now – let alone Steve – and it was best that he remained alone, in case his nasty habit of pushing people away somehow made the situation worse than it already was. His plans to brood and stress alone were shattered in under an hour, which is how long it took for Natasha to find out something was going on and come down to visit him. She couldn’t see him, but she rapped smartly on the glass with a severe expression on her face, “Open up, Stark, I don’t have time for hiding.” Her blunt tone was somewhat welcome in a twisted sort of way, for the same reason that his two best friends were Pepper and Rhodey. Tony was a lot to handle on a good day, and dealing with him usually entailed being able to assert yourself. When he was upset or angry, it didn’t do him any good to be sympathised with and coddled, he wasn’t used to it, had never been exposed to it as a child, and it simply made him feel more alienated. He valued honesty in his friends, more than he valued kindness, perhaps making Natasha the perfect candidate for this particular talk.

“I’m not going to count to three.” She warned, rolling her eyes, and Tony reluctantly instructed JARVIS to permit her entrance. 

She didn’t hesitate to march through the door, clearing a space on one of his work benches by shoving everything to one end (nevermind his _priceless_ research, then). “What happened?” She asked curiously, squinting at him, “You didn’t tell Steve you’re in love with him and then start crying or something, did you?” It was almost accurate, but Tony glared at her anyway. 

“I’m—I’m not… I’m not in _love_ with Steve,” he spluttered out weakly, far too emotionally compromised to even bother trying to come up with a response that was believable enough to fool Nat, “and for the record, Steve was the one that ran away.” He couldn’t resist adding the sulky remark, to which she only nodded.

“That makes more sense, actually, I saw him on the way to his room. I asked what was wrong and he just went this bright red colour and said ‘Tony’ very dramatically before running away to his room. So, what went down?”

“Try asking Steve! He was the one that kissed me, and I panicked and kissed him back because I’m maybe in love with him a little bit, not a weird amount or anything, and then he panicked, and fucking ran out of the elevator like I had a contagious disease!” Tony complained to her petulantly, spinning around in his chair like a five-year-old to avoid meeting her gaze, “He must… I don’t know. Maybe he knew how I felt. Maybe he just wanted to see what it was like to kiss a man or something. Well, I hope that I was at least a good experiment for him.” The last comment was bitter, and he resented himself for saying it. 

“Hey, not to insult your genius or anything, but did you consider the fact that when you panicked Steve thought you didn’t like him?”

Tony paused.

“No.” He admitted, in a quieter tone. 

“Did you consider that when you didn’t go after him Steve probably assumed that you hate him now?”

“Definitely not.” 

“And you’re going to fix that, aren’t you, Tony?” Her voice was still sweet, if not condescending, and the genius knew that there was only one answer that left him with his bones intact. 

“Yes, ma’am.” A cautious kind of smile was beginning to emerge on his face, as the small and tentative possibility of Steve actually liking him blossomed in the back of his mind. It didn’t seem possible, it _shouldn’t_ be possible when Steve deserved the world and Tony couldn’t offer him even a fraction of that, but even that knowledge did nothing to crush that childish hope. 

Almost unconsciously, his pace began to quicken, the restlessness of inaction taking up in his veins and slowing time, turning it into something villainous and preventative. It was a feeling he was used to, inactivity and helplessness on the battlefield was met with a predecessor in the form of itching hands and the inability to just sit still, when his mind worked just a little bit too fast for all the other kids in the room to catch up. Tony Stark was not born to be still.  
The elevator was moving far too slowly, and he darted through the doors as soon as they slid open far enough. It occurred to him that he should perhaps be approaching Steve’s door with something more to offer, like flowers or something else traditional that Steve might appreciate. It was too late for that, however, as he knew that if he turned away from his Captain’s doorstep now, he wouldn’t be able to summon the courage to return. 

Doors were so intimidating, sometimes. He couldn’t put his hand on why or how – was it some ingrained psychological default of his? But standing in front of Steve’s door now filled him with an apprehension unlike he had ever felt. It wasn’t necessarily negative, but it came with the mounting pressure that if he fucked this up, he would never forgive himself.

Reaching out to knock, he was thrown entirely off balance when the door already began to open. “Steve!” He exclaimed, looking at his miserable best friend.  
“Tony…” Steve’s response lacked similar enthusiasm, “I’m glad I caught you. I need to apologise for what happened.”

The inventor held up a hand to interrupt him before Steve could launch into one his speeches and shook his head. “No, me first. I need to apologise. I wasn’t straight with you (pun intended),” Steve’s face cracked a little, the hints of a smile ghosting along his face at the awful joke and Tony felt himself fall a little deeper, “about how I feel. Because I feel so much for you Steve, all the time. You know I’m an all or nothing person, it’s possibly the worst trait that could befall someone, but I feel so, so much. I feel this stupid joy whenever you make a God-awful joke, or you pull that ‘aw shucks’ bullshit and get away with it. I feel this overwhelming, dangerous sense of fear and hurt whenever you’re in danger, or you’re injured, or I make you upset. Fuck Steve, you’ve made me angry when you pull some shit like throwing your life away for someone like me. And for every single second of it, you’ve made me fall in love with you. When we kissed, I was in shock. Disbelief, even. Steve, even with my inflated ego even I’m aware of the fact that I could live a million lives, try and fix the world a million ways and I would still never deserve you. How could I believe that there was even a chance you’d want a mess like me? But a very good mutual friend may have suggested the idea, and as you can tell, I’m sort of running with it. That’s my turn over I guess, you can spout whatever ‘no homo’ bullshit you had prepared now if you want.”

Steve stared at him with wide eyes, the processing of Tony’s words clear behind them. His face was flushed a bright red, and he managed to strangle out a few words. “I, uh, don’t think the ‘no homo’ speech is necessary, do you?” 

Relief flooded through Tony at his response, and he felt like an idiot for thinking that things between him and Steve could be ruined so easily. “I suppose not.”

“Tony, can we…” Steve trailed off, looking uncertain. 

"Can we?"

“You know…” Tony thought he might implode from the tension he was feeling while Steve hesitated, “Kiss?”

He honestly could have cried at the question – because frankly, he knew that there was never an option to hide his feelings forever when the man in front of him existed quite like he did. 

“You know, Steve, I think that could be arranged.”

Tony didn’t hesitate to duck under Steve’s arm, grabbing him by his shirt and tugging for him to follow. When they kissed, no panicking and running involved, it felt perfect. It felt right. And Tony reflected, in that moment, that if all the shit he suffered and all the things he had seen led up to this, then he wouldn’t take it back for anything. As he let himself be with Steve, it was the first moment that Tony Stark realised that what his Captain had said earlier was true, everyone needed a little polish.

But even when he wasn’t perfect, even when he could still use a lot of work, Steve still thought he shone. And that, he could live with.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you guys liked this!! sorry for playing with tony's feelings but there was a happy ending at least  
> feedback and comments are hella appreciated  
> L


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